Walrus Cottage Blooms
by RosieG
Summary: The fluffy and smutty flinthamilton modern tattoo-artist/florist au we all deserve. Thomas has a violent allergic reaction to the wisteria at the new florist's shop across from his tattoo parlor. His fury melts away when he comes face to face with the gorgeous, ginger owner. No one expects love, but sometimes it's right across Sullivan Street.
1. Chapter 1

Art by the amazing sartsumas on tumblr.

* * *

"You landed alright, darling?"

Thomas held his cellphone with his shoulder while he tried to fish his keys out of his pocket and find the right one on the key ring.

"Yes. The turbulence was terrible, but I am on terra firma once again, none the worse for wear... ah!" He'd finally got the key in the lock, the others jangling as he turned it and grabbed his luggage, dragging it inside after him.

The comforting smells of Sullivan St. Tattoos greeted Thomas when he set his things down, and he paused for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of Green Soap and leather sofas.

"So, how did it go in Boston?" There was a smile in Miranda's voice and it made Thomas grin. He flipped the light switches and collapsed onto one of the waiting room couches with a groan.

"Honestly? I just wanted to get home. It was great, the people were lovely and welcoming, but…"

"Though far I roam, that thought shall be, my hope, my comfort, everywhere; While such a home remains to me, my heart shall never know despair."

Thomas laughed softly. "Elizabeth Browning?"

"Anne Brontë."

"Ah! So close." Thomas fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Overall the tour was incredible. I got to see the country, I was booked solid at every event, but you're right. There's nothing quite like home. The last three cities were almost too much."

He tilted his head back, reveling in the silence. "What about you?" he finally asked, his voice a low murmur. "How are things back home?"

Miranda's voice was a little too light. "Oh, you know, the same as usual. I think Teddy's working himself up to proposing."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Really? That'll be, what? Husband number… seven?"

"Hush. Number three, and you know it. And I'm not quite sure I see why it matters."

"It doesn't. Enjoy him, I hope he sticks. So you'll be Mrs. Barlow soon?"

"Yes, it seems so."

"You ever wonder how different our lives could have been? Maybe you and I really should have gotten married. We'd be well off, probably living in some ridiculously excessive town house in Kensington. No divorces, just plenty of lovely affairs in between trips to our private island in the Bahamas where we'd roll around in obscene amounts of money for fun."

Miranda laughed, and the sound of it made something flare bright in Thomas's chest. God, he loved her.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I rather think we're both happier this way. You would have been miserable as a barrister, and if you _had_ married me, you'd still have to speak to your father on a regular basis. I'm not sure all the money in the world would make up for a single conversation with him, let alone a lifetime of them."

"No, I suppose not."

The sound of beeping from the outside drew his attention, and Thomas stood to pull the blinds and take a look. A moving truck was backing into a spot across the street. "Huh. It looks like someone's let the shop across the street at last."

"Oh, new neighbor? I hope he's good looking."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Might not even be a 'he'."

"No one expects love, Thomas."

He laughed. That was Miranda's go-to excuse for almost every bad decision he'd ever made - that she'd ever convinced him to make.

"Yes, well, I'll settle for the new neighbor being less of an idiot than Evan was. Looking down his nose at me every time he saw me outside. Fine arts gallery my arse. You can't glue a few newspaper cutouts to a plastic doll's head and expect anyone to pay 5,000 dollars for it. We both went to Cornell, Evan. We both know you're full of shit."

Miranda laughed again and Thomas got serious once more.

"You're happy?" he asked her.

"Yes, darling."

Thomas nodded. "Good. Me too."

"I'll talk to you in a few days, I'm off to meet Teddy." She hesitated. "Do me a favor, Thomas? Go on a date?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Too busy for a date. I'm booked solid until July."

"Go anyway. Otherwise, what was the point?"

And he didn't have an answer to that, so he said goodbye and hung up the phone.

* * *

People had warned James that the New York air would be too hot and humid. But for now, in mid-April, it was lovely, and almost exactly like home.

He was grateful for the cool air coming in through the open windows as he wiped sweat out of his eyes for the tenth time, trying to figure out the best spot for his ficus tree after moving his furniture around ad nauseum. His balcony was already spilling over with begonias, pansies and chrysanthemums, and he had several English vines in hanging pots near the balcony doors. He should get just enough sunlight outside for all of them for at least a few hours each day.

He dragged the ficus across the living room, setting it next to the sofa and grimaced. No. Maybe next to the piano? He dragged it again across the floor and stood back. Terrible.

He groaned as his phone rang. "This is Flint."

"You fucking wanker."

James grinned. "What is it now, Gates?"

His friend and business partner of five years, Hal Gates, sounded absolutely fed up. But then, he usually did.

"James, I swear to you, I am going to fucking wring Billy's neck with my own two hands."

"Billy… Billy… Remind me which one he was again?"

James had to hold the phone away from his ear as Gates's voice came over at double the volume. " _You are_ not _fucking telling me that you don't fucking remember who you left in charge of the shop in Brixton!"_

James laughed. "Oh, _that_ Billy."

Gates muttered something on the other end of the line that sounded suspiciously like, " _Fuck me, I'm getting too old for this shit_."

"So Billy's giving you trouble?" he asked, as an extended olive branch.

Gates huffed and puffed. "James. _James_. He's determined to get the royal wedding."

James frowned. "That's impossible. We've never done a royal event. We're not on the approved list of vendors for Buckingham."

"Yes. I know that. _You_ know that."

James laughed. "Billy doesn't know that."

" _Billy doesn't know that_."

James made a snap decision and moved the ficus back next to the sofa. He wasn't thrilled with the placement, but there wasn't a better option.

"Okay. So Billy wants to do Harry's wedding. Why is this an issue? I wanted to be a pirate captain when I was a boy, but you don't see me sailing the seven seas. Wanting something doesn't make it happen."

Okay, his cactus. Where should his cactus go?

"He's been cold-calling fucking dukes, James."

James tripped on his way to the kitchen and slammed his hip into the corner of the table.

"Bloody shitting fuck!"

"That's exactly what I said!"

"No, I just – ugh, never mind. Hal. He can't do that." James winced as he pressed down on his hip. That was going to bruise.

"You're telling me? I've been going out of my mind trying to explain to the gentle giant that this is going to fuck us."

James groaned, collapsing into a chair and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Okay. I – I'll talk to him. I'll give him a ring and I'll figure this out, don't worry."

"Forget the fact that Harry and Meghan definitely had a florist picked out within three seconds of their engagement. I don't need to tell you, James, that he's gonna destroy our chances at _ever_ getting put on that list of vendors, do I?"

"You just did, Gates. I said I'll take care of it."

"Right."

The line fell silent for a moment. "So, eh. You settling in okay?"

James rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Go get back to work, you tosser."

Gates was grinning loudly on the other end. "Keep me posted."

"Yeah, yeah." James ended the call without even bothering to say goodbye. James Flint and Hal Gates didn't do goodbyes.

He stared at his half-unpacked boxes and messy flat. Then he glared at his cactus.

"Ugh." He dialed Billy.

* * *

Over the next several days, Thomas watched in between appointments, as craftsmen, architects and designers came and went from the shop across the street.

He caught a few glimpses of the man who seemed to be in charge, though he never got a good look at him. He was tall, well built, and inescapably ginger.

Whoever the man was, whatever he was selling, he was clearly starting off with a decent budget, which meant the store was probably part of a chain.

So Thomas was surprised when he glanced outside one morning and saw the shop's sign had gone up.

Walrus Cottage Blooms.

A truck was unloading out front, and the sidewalk was an explosion of color, hundreds upon hundreds of flowers being moved inside in enormous buckets.

"A flower shop?" Thomas murmured to himself.

"Thomas, your ten o'clock's here," Abigail called lightly from behind the front desk.

Thomas started from the kitchenette where he'd been spying out the window. He glanced at the cup of tea he'd been making. Wonderful. He'd over-steeped it.

"Send them back, Abby, thank you."

The door opened and a group of giggling teenage girls came in, chattering excitedly about piercings. Thomas laughed softly, heading to the back of the shop. Abigail's voice trailed after him, asking them for their ID cards and what they'd all like to pierce. She handled walk-in piercings, and was very popular with the students in the area. The boys _and_ the girls.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, glancing back towards the window again.

At some point Thomas was going to have to go over there and introduce himself.

As things turned out, his first meeting with the florist across the street did not end up going according to plan.

* * *

James was just putting the finishing touches on a sample arrangement for an event at the Freedom Tower the following week when the bell of the shop clanged violently behind him, and someone charged in through the front door.

"What in _Christ's_ name -? How can you-?!"

James turned sharply to find a blond man pulling off latex gloves and looking positively apoplectic with rage. He stepped right into James's personal space, and James instinctively took a step back, knocking into the table behind him.

"Do you realize I almost maimed a client just now, because I cannot stop sneezing?" He gestured wildly behind him towards the window. James glanced past to read the sign above his shop– Sullivan St. Tattoos. His eyes widened.

"Oh! That's – that's terrible, I'm so –"

His apology was cut short by a violent sneeze.

"Oh. Bless you."

The blond man glared at him, eyes tearing.

James frowned. "Are you generally allergic to pollen?"

Rubbing at his eyes, he shook his head. "No, no, I've never been-"

"No, wait, don't do that. One moment." James maneuvered him into a chair and went rummaging beneath the register.

"Here!" He held up a bottle of eye drops triumphantly, stepping back in front of his new neighbor. "Do you mind if I-?"

"Uh…" Startlingly blue eyes blinked up at him, rubbed red and tearing. "Yes, um. Alright."

James tilted his head back with a finger under his chin, promptly administering a couple of eye drops to each eye.

The man blinked several times.

"Better?" James asked.

"Yes, actually, that is-" another violent sneeze echoed around the shop.

"Ah! One more second!" James went back behind the register and came back with a pill and a bottle of water. "Here. It's... Claritin? I think that's what the American version is called."

At this point, the man no longer looked angry. He was baffled. "I – allergy medication?"

James nodded. "I keep some around just in case."

"Okay, but I still-" Another sneeze. "Oh, bloody hell." He threw the pill back and downed half the bottle of water in one go.

"That should start working in about ten minutes. I wouldn't take a needle to anybody until then."

"No, really?"

James laughed. "Honestly, you'll probably feel better sitting in here."

"Where _all the flowers are_?"

James nodded to the front door. "It's the wisteria, the purple ones outside. Even people who aren't allergic to pollen can sometimes have some sort of reaction to wisteria. I don't usually stock it, but I'm doing a wedding for an extremely particular bride."

The man blinked slowly, eyes still streaming a bit, before he finally nodded. Now that his anger had abandoned him, he seemed embarrassed.

"I – I'm sorry about storming in here, I-"

James shook his head. "It's fine. Completely understandable. I would have been cross as well." He held his hand out. "I'm James. James Flint."

The way he was staring at James, the man wasn't quite sure what to make of him. Finally, he dropped his gloves on the table and took his hand. "Thomas Hamilton."

Thomas's hand was larger than his, warm and dry. And now that he wasn't all terrifying fury and sneezes, James was struck by how incredibly attractive he was.

Thomas blinked several times, squinting. "You're English?" he asked.

Old habits and ingrained pain made him answer reflexively, "From the UK, yes." And then, realizing Thomas was not about to tease him as his schoolmates used to, he elaborated. "Scotland, actually. From just outside Aberdeen."

"Oh. But your accent…"

James shrugged. "Moved to London during Uni. Went to secondary school in England as well, and you know what little gobshites boys that age can be. I phased out the accent over time."

"I'm sorry." Thomas frowned.

James's laugh was good-natured. "Why? It wasn't you teasing me."

"Still. People can be absolute tossers." He gave James a small crooked smile and that was it, James was gone.

 _Fuck_.

Sincere blue eyes, wide shoulders… And somehow, Thomas had gone from storming in a minute ago to putting James at enough ease to bring up one of his worst memories like it was nothing. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he'd-

Another colossal sneeze made him jump, and Thomas groaned. His hair was sticking up in every direction, his eyes still streaming, and misery was coming off of him in waves. James's heart went out to him, it truly did.

"How long are you going to be keeping the wisteria around, did you say?"

James grimaced. "Just a few days. But I'll be moving it into the back room. You should be fine. You might want to consider rescheduling with whichever client you're working on right now."

"Great."

"I'm really sorry, I-"

Thomas sighed. "No, it's alright. I don't have the time to reschedule. I'll have to tell her to come back after hours, and I had a –" He stopped, chewing at his lip. "Never mind."

"No, what?"

"I, er. Had a date tonight," he said, clearing his throat.

"Oh."

Well, of course he had a date. He was one of the most beautiful men James had ever seen.

"No, really. It's fine. A mutual friend set us up, and I wasn't actually interested… It's a relief to be honest. I was looking for an excuse to cancel."

James wasn't sure how much of that, if any of it, was true. But a tiny sense of victory sang through him nonetheless.

"Well, let me make it up to you. I'm new to the neighborhood, and I clearly don't know anyone. I'd be happy to come by with a takeaway whenever you're done with your client tonight. Food, maybe some beers?"

Thomas frowned. "You don't have to do that, I'll just-"

"I want to." Fuck, he sounded much too eager. "What I mean is, er… You'd be doing me a favor. Otherwise I'll end up sitting here eating on my own with just the wisteria for company."

Thomas huffed out a short laugh and a blush rose to James's cheeks. "Just the wisteria for company? That _would_ be tragic."

Blue eyes sparkled at him. His heart was beating in his throat.

"Okay," he said at last. "I'll see you tonight. Just ring the buzzer round about nine?"

James nodded.

Thomas stood, and oh… he was tall. James hadn't noticed through the fury and sneezing.

"Thanks for the drops and the…" Thomas trailed off then cleared his throat and turned quickly, walking out. The bell on the door rang once again, and then he was gone.

A loud sneeze sounded from outside a moment later.

* * *

James rang Thomas's bell at exactly nine o'clock that night.

He'd actually miscalculated how long it would take him to get down two flights of stairs and cross a street and arrived three minutes early, so he'd paced in front of the door until it was time.

James shifted on his feet, moving the bag of Chinese food from one hand to the other as he waited, feeling only slightly awkward. Had Thomas even remembered his offer?

A minute later, however, a key turned in the lock, and the door to the tattoo parlor swung open. Thomas smiled at him, wearing the same clothes from earlier, though his eyes were no longer irritated, and his blond hair glowed in the combined light from the streetlights and the shop.

"Hi," he said softly.

James fought down a faint blush. "Hi."

Thomas stepped back, letting James in.

The shop was… not what James had expected a tattoo parlor to look like. Not that he'd ever been in one, but he definitely hadn't pictured a posh waiting room with expensive leather sofas, a deep mahogany coffee table, and beautiful, bright colored art on the walls. James had a decent enough grasp of art to recognize the pieces were expensive. There were several artistic black and white photographs of tattoos as well, and James found himself completely fascinated.

"Your work?"

Thomas nodded. "I'm just finishing up. You can wait in here, if you'd like, or you can come back and see Anne's latest addition. She doesn't mind."

"Anne?"

Thomas smiled. "One of my regulars. The appointment I had to reschedule earlier."

Right. James grimaced. "Sorry about that, again."

Thomas shook his head. "No need to worry. Haven't had any issues since."

In truth, James was curious. He'd never gotten a tattoo himself, and never seen anyone else get one. He wasn't squeamish, so he didn't think he'd have an issue, but he also didn't want to intrude. Regardless of whether or not Anne minded, getting a tattoo seemed like a private affair.

"Alright," Thomas said, when James told him he'd wait. "Ten minutes, at most." And he slipped back into the hallway.

A faint buzz came from the back room as James continued looking around the waiting room. He set the bag of Chinese food on the coffee table and picked up an album, sifting through it.

It was all photos of Thomas's work. James turned pages in fascination, eyes widening at the images and the colors. He'd never seen tattoos like these. They looked like watercolor paintings, shades blending into each other, the images themselves lovely and whimsical. He'd always thought tattoos were just a form of branding – taking a picture and staining it into your skin. These tattoos were art, only Thomas had used skin as his canvas, instead of paper or cloth.

Turning another page, James saw a flier with a picture of Thomas in the top corner, announcing his participation at an event in Los Angeles. The next several pictures were taken in the same hall. Another flier appeared after that one – Chicago, and more photos. San Antonio, Seattle, Detroit, Boston, Orlando…

James's eyes widened and he glanced back towards the back room again. The buzzing had stopped and voices were coming down the hall. He stood just as Thomas stepped into the outer room, a tall, red-haired woman right behind him.

"Anne Bonny, this is my new neighbor, James Flint. James, this is Anne."

Anne narrowed her eyes, sizing him up. "So you're the reason Tom almost fucked me over earlier?"

"Um…"

Thomas laughed. "You don't give me nearly enough credit, dear. And you can't blame James for something so completely out of his control."

Anne's expression clearly said, "Try me," but she remained silent, opting only to grunt in response.

"You already know the proper care for the next few days. Warm water and soap, thin layer of cream. You won't be able to reach this one, so have Jack help you with it, alright?"

Anne was still glaring at James and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. Anne Bonny might possibly be the most terrifying woman he'd ever met, and she'd only been in the same room with him for a minute at most.

"You sure you're okay with this one?" Anne asked with a sneer.

"I think I'll manage." Thomas grinned, and James's stomach flipped over.

At last Anne shrugged. "See you in a month for the rest of it, yeah?"

Thomas nodded, and like that, Anne was gone. She didn't even say goodbye.

"Lovely, isn't she?"

James cocked an eyebrow at Thomas and the other man laughed at his expression. "Oh, yes, terrifying, but she's soft under all that bluster, I promise you."

"How many tattoos does she have?"

Thomas moved to the front desk and wrote something down in a ledger there. "This is her third with me, though she has several others."

James nodded, waiting awkwardly for Thomas to finish doing whatever he needed to do.

"Well, that's that. Now, unless you want to eat in the waiting room of a tattoo parlor, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic, why don't we move up to my flat?"

James grinned. "That would be great."

* * *

Thomas's apartment was another surprise. It was warm and inviting. Gone was the smell of antibacterial soap, to be replaced with vanilla and –

"Cinnamon?"

Thomas smiled. "I made scones this morning."

"You bake?"

His laughter was as warm as the flat. "Only when I need to bribe my receptionist. She had to stay late last week, and that was the condition."

And that was possibly one of the most endearing things James had ever heard.

Thomas's flat was open and inviting, the living room easing into the kitchen. There was more art here, in shades of bright blues and turquoises and greens, and sofas of the kind James would never want to get up out of once he'd sat down.

The balcony doors were opened wide to the night, and the chill April air was breezing lightly into the room.

"Oh, that's my place, up one floor," James said, pointing across the street and up.

Thomas joined him at the balcony door.

"That's quite a lot of flowers."

James raised an eyebrow. "Florist," he said, pointing at his own chest.

"Right."

They smiled at each other, and with a sudden desperation, James prayed Thomas was as gay as he was. Which was very, _very_ gay.

"So," Thomas exclaimed, turning towards the kitchen, "I smell Mr. Chow's. Chopsticks or fork?"

James had to shake himself a bit to remember they were supposed to be eating dinner. "Oh, right, er – I've always been terrible with chopsticks, actually."

Thomas tsked at him as he opened a cutlery drawer.

"Yes, I know. Make fun of me all you want, I made my peace with my own shame a long time ago."

Thomas grinned and handed him a fork, sitting on one of the sofas with a sigh, and pulling out cartons.

"In this house, there is no shame, James." It was a joke, but something settled warmly in his heart. James smiled, sitting next to Thomas and grabbing an eggroll.

They talked as they ate. Thomas loved his life in New York City, but still missed England, and he listened happily to James talk about his own life there until he'd moved last month.

"I opened my second shop two years ago, and it was doing so well, that I received several requests to do events here in the US and I finally decided to expand overseas…"

Thomas shook his head. "That's incredible."

James shrugged. "Yes, well, I'm not getting too excited. I may have to end up calling it all off if my manager in Brixton can't get a hold of himself." And he told Thomas about Billy and Gates and the royal wedding, and Thomas laughed so hard he had to put his food down, tears streaming down his face. James joined in.

"So where did the name come from?" Thomas asked him, when he could finally breathe again. "Walrus Cottage Blooms?"

Memory swept through him and James smiled. "It was the name of my grandparents' cottage, in Scotland. They raised me. My grandmother loved flowers, more than anything. They were everywhere, growing up. All over the cottage. Flowers and gingersnaps. My grandfather kept a garden for her, right up until she passed away." A note of melancholy colored his voice. "I was at my first year of university."

He took a moment, his memories turning slightly gray, blurred. He shrugged. "I think once she died, my grandfather had a hard time keeping the flowers growing, without her there to enjoy them. And he started to shrivel and fade along with them. He passed less than a year later."

"I'm sorry."

The smile James gave Thomas was genuine. As were his words. "No, it's fine. They were happy, and they loved each other, and me, and there was always color in our lives. Eventually, starting a flower shop seemed like the right thing to do."

Thomas's expression was hard to read. It was sad, and wistful, and almost hungry.

"What about you?" he asked him at last. "How did you end up becoming a tattoo artist?"

Thomas leaned back. "Oh, well, that's a story. Originally, my father wanted me to be a barrister."

"No!"

Thomas laughed. "Yes."

James tried to picture Thomas in a barrister's wig. He couldn't see it.

Thomas continued. "In truth, my father and I have always had a difficult relationship. He did not approve of my life choices. So of course, once I'd done my duty and received my degree at Cambridge, the only thing to do was to was run as far away as I could and choose the absolute opposite of what my father would consider a worthwhile education. I ended up getting my MFA in art at Cornell."

James snorted, waving towards the rice. Thomas passed it to him.

"I carried on for the next several years that way. Whenever I had to make a choice, I thought, 'What would Alfred Hamilton absolutely hate for me to do?' and did precisely that." Thomas shook his head sadly. "I took me a while before I realized…" he trailed off.

"What?"

Thomas sighed and spread his hands out. "For all my fighting, for all my rebellion, I had still ended up letting my father dictate my life to me. I wasn't doing anything because I wanted to do it. Even if I knew my father would hate my choices, he was still controlling me. That was… a difficult time in my life."

There was more to the story there, but he wasn't going to push. He waited patiently for Thomas to continue, and after a long pause, he did.

"Some of my friends decided to go get tattoos on the last day of our third year, and dragged me along. And-" Thomas's eyes sparkled, and he shrugged. "I don't know? I was completely taken by it. People who willingly put themselves in the hands of a stranger to change them in a way that was so permanent, artists who only got one shot at creating perfection? It was a leap of faith, and artwork achieved through pain and precision, and I fell in love. It was… beautiful."

James suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The way Thomas described it, tattooing sounded almost… intimate.

"I like people. I like connecting with them, understanding them. There's something about tattooing someone that leaves them entirely open to you. They're putting themselves in your hands, trusting you with something close to their heart, and with the ability to make this life-altering change to them. And I think that idea, that connection, is what attracted me to it, more than anything else."

James blinked and he was back to sunny Sunday afternoons at home in Scotland. To his grandfather showing him how to care for the different flowers in the garden, the smell of baking coming from the open kitchen window. He was surrounded by daffodils and bluebells and primroses and his grandmother laughing. Thomas was right - it was a deeply personal image, one he couldn't share so easily.

"It's something I've considered doing before. My grandmother… I've thought about getting her favorite flowers somewhere, but it never seemed right. I never really thought a tattoo would do it justice. The colors would never compare to the real thing, the lines would never look as soft, but those photos downstairs… I've never seen work like that."

Thomas ducked his head, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

He had put that blush there. The thrill of it pushed James on. "I'm the first to admit that I don't know very much about all of this, but I was going through one of your albums, and you've – well, you've been _everywhere_. And it isn't hard to see why."

Thomas cleared his throat and laughed. "You're making me extremely self-conscious, and that's hard to do, James Flint. For the most part, I'm annoyingly aware of how good I am. Ask any of my friends, they'll tell you I'm insufferable." He tucked his chin and stole a piece of James's kung-pow chicken with his chopsticks.

James laughed too.

"I mean it, though. I - I might actually do it, if I knew it would end up looking like those pictures."

He held Thomas's eyes, trying to make sure he saw his own sincerity, saw how deeply he meant what he'd said. Thomas bit his lip, cheeks flushed, with pleasure or embarrassment, James didn't know. Either way, he took pity on him and changed to subject.

"So I'm a florist and as you saw across the street, I have an inordinate amount of flowers to match. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, you're a tattoo artist. I saw the pictures. I met Anne. You're clearly devoted to your work, and yet I don't see a single tattoo. Don't the two generally go hand in hand?"

Thomas's grin was slow and full of mischief. "Oh, I have a few. Just not where anyone can see," he said, winking.

His mouth went dry. Thomas was flirting with him. He had to be. And then James was struck with the enticing idea of exactly where he might find those tattoos. His eyes trailed down Thomas's body, lingering on his torso, on his thighs. When he snapped his eyes up once again, Thomas was smirking. Oh. He knew exactly what he'd done.

James cleared his throat and busied himself with collecting the empty takeaway boxes, hating how hot his cheeks were. Fucking gingers.

"Let me do that." Thomas got up immediately and began clearing the table.

He needed to cut and run before he said or did something stupid again. "I - I'd better get home." He stood and ambled slowly towards the front door.

"Are you sure?" Thomas was disappointed. "It's early yet."

"I have a shipment coming in tomorrow morning."

Thomas nodded, coming over to unlock the door, and opening it. He leaned against the doorframe. "Thank you for this. It's been a while since I had dinner with anyone."

"You would have still had dinner with someone tonight if I hadn't cocked everything up," James said with a shrug.

Thomas's blue eyes pierced straight through him. "I'm rather glad you did."

James glanced out the door and down the hall, shuffling his feet.

"Let me ask you something." A hand on his arm grounded him, stilling his nerves, or at least freezing them in place. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but - are you attracted to me?"

Before he could stop himself, he'd glanced at Thomas's lips. He flicked his eyes back to Thomas's almost immediately, but Thomas-

Thomas _smirked_ , and while James's heart did its damnedest to fucking beat directly out of his chest, he leaned in slowly, giving James plenty of time to back away if he wanted to.

Like fuck he wanted to.

He closed his eyes and the soft brush of Thomas's lips against his own sent a shiver down his arms, standing every hair on end. It was barely more than a light peck, but he held it for a second that felt like eternity. James thought he might melt from the sweetness of it.

When Thomas pulled back, James blinked at him, breathless, speechless, and aching for another kiss just like it.

Thomas swallowed, his throat moving, and he let out a shaky breath. "Like I said. Thank you for cocking everything up."

"Anytime," James whispered. "I - I'm gonna - " He backed through the door, bumping into the hallway plant, and fuck, that plant really needed more sunlight than it was ever going to get in here, and Thomas was laughing. James grinned stupidly - he was weightless and full of something ridiculously romantic, like starlight, or sea foam or whatever color Thomas's eyes were, and he backed away down the hall, raising his hand in a wave.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight."

* * *

Thomas shut the door and leaned back against it, an utterly stupid smile on his face.

The evening had gone so much better than he'd initially imagined. He really hadn't wanted to go out with Miranda's accountant friend, and now…

Thomas pushed off from the door, grabbed his phone, and flopped onto the sofa.

His cheeks hurt from grinning so much, and he took a moment to center himself, burying his face in a sofa pillow and kicking his feet. Then he took a breath and unlocked his phone.

It was much too late to call Miranda. It was… Thomas checked the time. Nearly four in the morning in London. He'd have to text her instead.

 _You were right. New neighbor is very good looking. Sorry I backed out of the date tonight, but also not sorry at all, because the beautiful, ginger florist across the street kissed me._

Well, technically Thomas had kissed _him_. And then Thomas had to bury his face in the pillow again, the soft echo of James's lips against his own whispering through his mind, the hitch of James's breath brushing against his ear, his grin as he'd stumbled down the hall imprinted on the backs of Thomas's eyelids. He'd fall asleep to the image tonight.

Thomas took a deep breath and continued typing.

 _Tell Teddy I say hi._

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd go across the street and ask James on a proper date. Had James even been to New York before? Had he done any sightseeing? Thomas wanted to show him everything - Central Park, and the High Line, and the New York Public Library, and the MoMa…

God, he could use Miranda right now. He needed to share this bubble of happiness with her, he hadn't felt anything like it in so long. He closed his eyes, picturing James's surprise when Thomas had asked if he was attracted to him, the charming soft blush on his cheeks, those lovely freckles.

He sent Miranda one last text before dragging himself off of the sofa and getting ready for bed.

 _I wonder if his freckles go all the way down..._


	2. Chapter 2

His fucking phone was ringing at – James cracked an eye blearily and glanced at the clock. Six o'clock in the fucking morning.

He fumbled for it, glancing at the screen.

"Christ, Gates, what the _fuck_?" he said, voice cracking, by way of an answer.

"That's it, James. Pack up, fucking throw everything into a suitcase and get back here. I won't do it anymore. You handle Billy and I'll move to New York to run the US shop."

It was only sheer force of will that kept James from chucking the phone at the wall and going back to sleep.

"I think your wife and kids might feel put out by that decision."

"I don't care. I'll leave them here. I can visit them every couple of weeks. As long as I don't have to handle Gigantor's stupidity anymore."

Flint groaned into his pillow. "Why do you think being here would make a difference, Hal? I'm here, and yet, somehow, it is fucking six am and I have to deal not only with Billy, but with your unbelievable bullshit as well."

"It's six am there?"

"Yes, you wanker."

"Fuck, James, I'm sorry."

"Shut the fuck up, Gates. What did he do now?"

"You don't want to know, it's too early for this, I shouldn't have-"

James clenched his teeth and finally sat up, pulling off the covers. "It's too late. I'm up. I'm getting coffee. What's Billy done?"

Gates fell suspiciously quiet, and a genuine tendril of concern made James's fingers twitch.

"I emailed you a link. I don't even know where to begin."

James flipped on the coffee maker and opened his laptop, pulling up his email. The link from Gates was to an article from the Daily Mail's gossip section.

 _Daily Mail reporters have it on good authority that Walrus Cottage Blooms has been hired as the approved florists for Harry and Meghan's wedding! Walrus Cottage Blooms, with shops located in Brixton and Chelsea, recently expanded overseas to New York City. The owner, James Flint-_

He stopped reading.

"I'm going to murder him."

"Thing is," Gates broke in suddenly, "I've been fielding calls all day. We're fucking inundated, James. People want to hire Harry and Meghan's florist."

It was too early in the morning for this. Gates was right. He should pack his suitcase and fly back tonight, just to shove his own foot as far up Billy's arse as he could.

"But we're not Harry and Meghan's florists," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. The coffee maker beeped and James thanked whatever God was out there for caffeine.

"They don't know that. And even after I tell 'em, they set up appointments anyway, because even if the tip was wrong, they all think we must be decent enough that someone made the mistake to begin with."

James's hand dropped. "Huh."

"I'm still gonna kill him, though." Gates was back to sounding furious. "You realize, the worst part about all of this is he's gonna think it was some massive success? Meanwhile, I'm thinking of calling up the Royal Chamberlain's office to apologize, and I fucking swear I'm developing an ulcer."

"You should."

"What? Develop an ulcer? I'm not sure how-"

"You should call the Royal Chamberlain's office."

Silence met him on the other end of the line.

"Flint, fuck me, I wasn't actually serious."

James poured himself a cup of coffee, shoulders tense. "Well, I am. Call them. Tell them we don't know who tipped the Daily Mail off, but we're looking into it, and that we'll have them print a retraction. Make sure they understand how deeply sorry we are, and that we have nothing but the utmost respect for them and what they do."

"James-"

"And then, make sure you let slip that we're booked solid with events until the beginning of 2019, including the New York Historical Society Gala Dinner at the World Trade Center, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute Benefit."

"What - wait, James, you got an answer about the Met benefit? When-"

"Fuck the Met benefit, just tell them."

This time the silence on the other end of the line was contemplative.

"Are you telling me you honestly think we might finish up the season on the Royal Chamberlain's list of approved vendors? Because of fucking Billy Manderley?"

James took a sip of his coffee and closed his eyes. "Are you telling me you're not willing to take an opportunity when it's been given to you, no matter how foolish the original intent was?"

"Well. I'll be buggered."

"Fuck off, Gates. You've done enough damage for one day. I'll handle Billy, _again_. Let me know how it goes."

He hung up the phone.

Light was flooding in through the open balcony doors, and James glanced outside, still furious at being conscious this early in the morning. Then his eyes fell on the apartment building across the street and last night came back to him in a rush.

In seconds, his kitchen seemed infinitely brighter, and James inhaled the scent of his coffee, unable to keep himself from smiling.

Thomas… had kissed him.

He'd had a lot of expectations when he'd made the decision to move to New York, a lot of plans. Possibly falling for a tall, blond tattoo artist had not been part of them.

He took another sip of coffee, letting his eyes fall shut, drifting in the soft and slightly chilled morning air, birds chirping outside the window.

Okay. He could face today. He could handle this. _Again_.

He picked up his phone, sighed, and rang Billy.

* * *

Thomas loved the Saturday morning farmers' market. Every week, he got up early to walk the few blocks to the market, grabbing coffee on the way, soaking in the morning sunlight, watching the people milling about, and letting the peacefulness of it settle in his heart.

Miranda told him it was unnatural, waking up so early on the weekend. The last time she'd visited, he'd tried to get her to come with him. She'd thrown a shoe at him.

His phone rang and Thomas pulled it out of his back pocket, checking the screen.

 _Pseudo-Wife_

Speak of the devil.

Biting his lip to hold back a grin, Thomas answered.

"You cannot send me a message like that and then expect me to have to wait until you're awake to respond, Thomas!"

"Good morning, Miranda. Lovely day here in New York. What's the weather like in London?"

"It's fucking pouring outside, darling, same as every day. Now, tell me!"

Thomas stopped walking, leaning back against an electric pole. The market bustled around him.

"Did you know I'm allergic to wisteria? Isn't that lovely?"

"Thomas, have you suffered a blow to the head? Have you seen a doctor?"

He laughed. "I had something of a meet-rude with my new neighbor. Like a meet-cute in a romantic comedy? Only with a lot more yelling on my part. One of the plants he was stocking set me off sneezing, and I almost stabbed a client with a needle. Well, stabbed more than I usually do."

James's shocked green eyes when he'd stormed through the front door of the flower shop still hovered in his memory.

"He wasn't at all bothered that I was furious, promptly apologized and gave me allergy medication, and all in all diffused the situation faster than I would have thought possible. You couldn't have done it, and that's saying something. And then he offered to buy me dinner."

"Oh, that's adorable. I hate it."

Thomas hummed in response.

"So he's ginger?" Miranda wheedled.

"Mmm. And freckled, and green-eyed and Scottish. He's broad-shouldered and his _thighs_ , Miranda... "

"I'll be expecting a sonnet from you on my desk tomorrow."

"I could write one, don't joke."

"Hmmm. No one expects love, darling."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, but yes, yes. You're right about everything and I am forever in your debt, blah, blah."

"So what's next?" He could hear Miranda smiling. She was genuinely happy for him.

"Well, I-" He stopped short, eyes widening as he caught sight of the man himself. James Flint was walking through the market in a knitted jumper, coffee in hand, and sunglasses perched on top of his head, like something straight out of a catalogue.

"Miranda, I'm going to have to call you back. But to answer your question, I'm going to ask him to dinner. Right now, as a matter of fact."

"What? Is he there? Put him on the phone!"

"Absolutely not, you menace. I'm protecting him from you as long as I can."

Miranda was still objecting when Thomas hung up on her. He pushed off from the electric pole and stopped directly in James's path, hands in his jeans pockets.

James froze for a second and then a brilliant smile replaced his surprise, one Thomas mirrored. He waited for James to come to him, and they stood in the sunlight, grinning at each other.

"Hello," James finally said.

"Hi, good morning. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

James laughed. "You don't waste any time, do you?"

Thomas shook his head. "Too many missed opportunities in life happen because people keep waiting for the right moment. You have a lovely laugh, have dinner with me."

The sunlight made James's blush even more brilliant. "Yes. Yes alright."

Thomas turned to James's side, nudging his shoulder with his own. "Good. Glad to get that out of the way. So, how was your night?'

They walked together, enjoying the sunshine and the colors and the smells of the market.

James sighed. "Too short. I got an early wake-up call."

"Yes, I was going to say, you do look tired."

"This is only my second coffee, give me a bit."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, but laughed. "Well, I'll have to treat you to your third."

James hummed and took another long drink of coffee.

"So? What happened? Oh, stop, I want to get some tomatoes."

They paused by a stand selling organic vegetables and Thomas rummaged through the tomato selection. James leaned his hip against the wooden crates.

"Remember Billy?"

Thomas nodded, putting a few tomatoes into a bag. "Mm, the enterprising young florist calling dukes?"

"The same. He tipped off the Daily Mail that we were contracted to do the royal wedding."

Thomas stopped dead, nearly dropping his vegetables. "You were? That's, James, that's-"

"A lie," James cut him off. "I spent the morning ripping into him over it. I told him we'd never get added to the approved vendors list if he kept pulling shit like this. Buckingham Palace don't want a loose cannon florist in charge of their events."

Thomas passed the seller some money. He nodded. "And what did Billy say?"

James sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. "God help me, he changed his twitter handle to LooseCannonFlorist as soon as he hung up the phone."

Sharp laughter burst out of him in a rush and James glared at him dolefully.

"Oh, oh James, I'm sorry, but you have to admire the audacity! He's young, and he thinks he's invulnerable, and yes, granted, you have to figure out a way to rein him in… But I also think you might be better off having him on your side than working for anyone else."

"I'm… aware."

They continued walking in comfortable silence, and James polished off his coffee.

"So, about that third cup…"

Thomas smiled and led him to a nearby cafe.

* * *

 _So what should i be wearing 2 dinner?_

James pressed send on the message and put his phone down, going back to organizing orchids and eucalyptus leaves. He tucked another white rose into the arrangement and glanced back at his phone, fingers itching to pick it up again.

They'd finally exchanged numbers after coffee this morning, which was proving to be a terrible distraction.

He had to get these done, someone would be by to pick them up in two hours, and he had twenty arrangements to go…

He sighed and picked his phone up again. He swiped it open, and grinned when he saw Thomas was typing.

 _Clothes would be best, but I'm open to alternatives._

James rolled his eyes, but laughed nonetheless

 _Helpful thanks_

He pressed send.

 _We're not going to the Four Seasons for dinner, if that's what you're asking. I thought we could get Italian._

 _Italian sounds gr8 :)._

James put his phone down again, determined once more to finish the arrangements. He had someone manning the front of the shop for walk-ins, and had closed himself off in the back room to get this done.

He added the finishing touches and started on another. His mind drifted to Thomas's smile in the market, his hair glowing in the sunlight. He pricked his finger on a thorn.

"Shit," he murmured, sucking on it and wincing.

Could he wear jeans to an Italian restaurant? It suddenly seemed very important to have a direct, verbal answer to that question.

"Howell, I'm going across the street for a bit. I'll be right back."

"But the arrangements-"

"I'll get them done, don't worry!" The bell of the shop tinkled and he was outside in a moment, crossing the road and pushing open the door to Sullivan St. Tattoos.

"Hi, can I help you?" a young girl asked sweetly from the front desk.

Thomas had mentioned her last night. "You're Abigail, right?"

She nodded, tilting her head inquiringly.

"Hi, I'm James, I let the shop across the street."

Abigail's eyes widened. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "Of course. Thomas, um, came by to introduce himself yesterday, right?"

James laughed. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Don't worry, it all worked out fine," he said, in response to her discomfort.

"James?" Thomas asked, coming out of the back room. "What are you doing here?"

"Er. I-"

Someone followed Thomas out of the back room and James fell silent as Thomas held up a hand, instructing James to wait, while he gave them the breakdown for proper tattoo aftercare.

A woman came in just as the first person was leaving.

Faced with a busy Thomas, James's reasons for crossing the street now seemed remarkably idiotic. This had been a mistake. "You're busy, I'm so sorry. It wasn't anything important, I-"

Thomas turned to the newcomer. "Lyla?"

She nodded, shuffling on her feet nervously.

Thomas smiled at her and James's stomach lurched, not unpleasantly. "I'll be with you in a moment. Abigail will help you out with the consent forms." He gestured towards Abigail, who smiled sweetly and gestured Lyla over.

"Tea?" he asked James, and James nodded, relieved.

"Please."

Thomas led him to a small kitchenette and set the electric kettle to boil. Then he leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms, a small smile on his lips.

"You're not cancelling on me, are you?"

James's eyes widened. "God, no!" Once again, too fucking eager. He laughed at his own hopelessness.

"Good. I would have been terribly disappointed."

It was such a lovely thing to say, James had to turn away, grinning. Thomas busied himself making tea.

"So what brings you here? Didn't you say you had a lot to do?" Thomas set the teabags to steep. He had actual, honest to God, English tea. Someone must have brought it for him from London.

James really needed to be making those fucking arrangements. Damned weddings.

He shuffled his feet. Once again, his excuse for coming over now seemed flimsy at best. "I wanted to ask if jeans would be okay for tonight."

Thomas tilted his head. "James, it's just Italian." He laughed and James badly wanted to kiss him. Properly this time. Not a peck, like last night. Not a short press of lips, but something soul-shattering, biting and deep. He pictured grabbing Thomas by the hips and pushing him back against the counter, sliding his tongue into his mouth and swallowing every sound Thomas made.

Jesus.

His eyes dropped to Thomas's lips again, his breathing hitched and Thomas _saw_.

"James." His eyes were dark, and he was no longer laughing.

James swallowed, taking a step back and creating enough space to keep him from making his imagination reality. He didn't think Lyla would appreciate having to reschedule after she'd come all this way, though she wasn't anywhere near as terrifying as Anne Bonny.

"I should go. Right now. Yeah."

Thomas nodded. He was gripping the counter top.

"I'll see you tonight."

He left without drinking his tea.

James _did_ get the arrangements done in the end, but it was a close thing. Howell had to help.

* * *

Italian had been the original plan.

But then James told Thomas he'd never been to the Empire State Building, which was a mistake Thomas seemed to feel required immediate correction.

James spent the five minute tube ride (the _subway_ , he corrected himself, and that would take some getting used to), arguing with him. Thomas had planned a whole date, he'd made reservations. They could always go see the Empire State Building a different time. And anyway, James had moved to New York City, he wasn't a fucking tourist.

Thomas argued right back. "There's no reason not to go now. The view is lovely at night, and besides. Plans change all the time." The train shifted, jostling James into Thomas, who steadied himself with a hand on James's hip. They grinned at each other and Thomas let go, leaving a burning imprint where his hand had been.

"Anyway, I'm very glad you don't want to be a tourist, but there are some things you can't escape, and the Empire State Building is one of them."

James laughed. In truth, he'd laughed more with Thomas in the last day than he had in months. It was wonderful.

They got off the train at 33rd street, and Thomas bought them each a couple of hotdogs from a street vendor.

"Dinner," he stated, matter-of-factly.

James eyed the vendor. "Are you sure this is even real food?" he asked in an undertone.

Thomas laughed and took a big bite, wiping a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. James had to hold himself back from taking Thomas's thumb and licking it clean.

"Come on, we can eat these up top." And he grabbed James's free hand and pulled him up the street.

The lift was crowded, and they had to lean into each other, Thomas pressing fully against his side. James was hyper aware of his warmth, and when he tore his eyes away from the quickly ascending numbers on the display, he found Thomas smiling at him. He took James's hand again, squeezing gently. James was fairly sure he'd left his stomach down in the lobby by the time they reached the 86th floor. Perhaps it was better that they hadn't made it to the restaurant. If Thomas kept smiling at him like that - easy and full - James wasn't sure he'd ever manage to eat another bite again.

But he forgot his nerves as soon as they made it out on to the open air observatory.

"Oh, wow," he muttered, pulling away from Thomas and approaching the railing, taking in the view.

It was chilly up here, but James didn't mind. The air smelled different - cleaner, far away from the dirt and grime of the street below. The lights were like small diamonds, thousands and thousands of them, glittering in the dark, fading away at times into nothing, and knitted so closely together in other places, they were as bright as small suns.

There was a jazz band set up inside, and the music trickled out through the open doors to the observation deck, lovely and soft, the saxophone, bass, and drums a perfect compliment to the New York skyline at night.

A hand on his shoulder drew his attention. When he turned, Thomas was holding out a hotdog.

"I told you," he said. "You can't miss it."

"It's beautiful. Is there always music?"

"Year round."

James took his hot dog with a raised eyebrow. "Was Italian ever on the table, or was this actually your plan all along?"

"You're giving me far too much credit, I'm not that devious." Thomas smiled softly. "That's something my friend Miranda would do, though. Maybe she's rubbing off on me."

"Miranda?" James asked, taking a bite of his hotdog, pleasantly surprised (and relieved) by how good it was.

Thomas leaned against the railing. "Miranda has been my best friend since we were teenagers, forced to attend and sit through the numerous social events our fathers hosted. They run one of the leading law firms in London… Anyway." He shrugged. "We both hated those dinners, and we bonded over that. But with time..." Thomas trailed off, smiling. "We went to uni together, shared a flat. I've been man of honor at her wedding twice now, third time coming. Miranda has been there for me when no one else was. In another time, in another place, we probably would have ended up married. God knows my father wanted me to marry her."

"But you're-"

Thomas cut him off with a wry smile. "My father was very much of the opinion that the right woman would _fix_ me."

James frowned, chewing slowly. He'd been terrified when he'd come out to his grandparents, afraid of not being accepted, of how they would react. But they had been wonderful, and loving, and never made him feel anything but cherished. He'd faced bigotry and cruelty from others, but he'd always had the people closest to him to run to, to love him.

Many of his friends had had terrible coming out experiences with their parents, but he'd never been forced to grow up without that support. Thomas had, and it filled him with terrible sadness.

"I'm sorry."

Thomas shrugged. "Both Miranda and I entertained the idea for a while. Having some sort of agreement to make my family happy, while retaining our senses of self. We both realized in the end that it wouldn't have been fair to either of us. But she's been my family all these years. There's no one I'd rather have as a platonic wife."

James laughed. "Platonic wife… I hope I get to meet her someday."

"No you don't, oh God. She'll tear you to shreds, in the best way. Miranda has the sharpest wit of anyone I've ever met, an extraordinarily keen eye, and is terrifyingly good at seeing straight through people within seconds of meeting them. She's scared the shit out of most of the men I've dated, you should be aware, and she has absolutely no sense of propriety or boundaries when it comes to looking out for me."

Honestly? That sounded absolutely wonderful. "Now I really can't wait to meet her," he said.

"Hm. No sense of self-preservation whatsoever, not particularly smart…" Thomas gave him an appraising look. "At least you're pretty."

"Oh, you think I'm pretty?" James teased, but Thomas didn't smile back.

"Very," he said seriously, and leaned in to kiss him. The slide of Thomas's lips against his own, and the slightest slip of his tongue stole James's breath before he pulled away.

"Oh," James breathed out.

Thomas handed him his second hotdog and took another bite of his own.

They ate in comfortable silence, the city the perfect backdrop to dinner. James tapped his foot in tune to the music, humming along from time to time. His life had been a whirlwind since he'd moved overseas. From renovating the shop and setting it up, to moving into the flat above it, organizing events that had been booked months in advance, before the New York branch of Walrus Cottage Blooms had even existed… He hadn't had a moment to do anything like this, or to relax. To him, New York was still a great unknown entity, his world having contracted to focus almost exclusively on Sullivan Street, SoHo, and the few locations he'd done events at so far.

"You know," Thomas murmured, "at night, if I let my eyes unfocus, so the lights all blend together, and I lose the shape of it all…" He sighed. "Sometimes then I can almost pretend I'm back in London." He leaned back against the railing, turning away from the city to look at James.

James tilted his head. "Do you miss it?"

"Some days more than others. But this place has started to feel… if not like home, then close. I'm happy here. What about you? Do you miss home?"

James sighed, leaning forward and staring out into the night, the light wind brushing softly against his cheeks and through his hair.

"Home…" he said wistfully. "London was never home to me." He glanced apologetically at Thomas, but Thomas took no offense. He waited patiently for James to continue. "Home was Aberdeen. And a tiny cottage with a garden. And the smell of sea salt on the breeze." He wrinkled his nose. In Manhattan you could sometimes smell the Atlantic, but it wasn't the same. It was murky, and fishy and brown. Not like the clean, cold spray breaking on the cliffs of Scotland. And in London you couldn't smell the sea at all.

"I sold the cottage when my grandfather died. I couldn't keep it. But that was the only place that ever felt like home to me. I do miss it. I'll forget, swept up in whatever I'm doing, whatever is taking up my time, but once in a while, the loss and missing of it will strike and I'll feel…" James tried to find a word to describe it. "I'll feel like I'm trespassing in my own flat, or shop, or life."

Thomas turned, tilting his head and bumping his shoulder against James's.

"I think," he said at last, "you might find yourself feeling at home here. Or at least, I hope so."

James glanced over at him and caught his eye. "So do I."

* * *

"This was completely unnecessary, you realize," James said as they stepped onto the second floor of Thomas's building, once again trying to yank his new baseball cap off of his head.

Thomas laughed and took it from him, setting firmly it back in place.

James grumbled. "You were taking the piss out of me."

"Oh, absolutely." Thomas didn't even try to deny it. "But really, James, every New York City newcomer must be subjected to the horror of at least one 'I 3 New York' item of clothing before they can call themselves residents of the city. It's tradition."

"Bollocks."

Thomas gave in to the laughter then, propping himself up against the hallway wall. "It's very fetching!" he managed to get out in between gasps.

James glared at him, and then pulled the cap around, putting it on backwards. This only served to make Thomas laugh harder.

"You look like an angry, ginger sports fan, about to lay in to the ump!"

"I'm about to lay into you, if anything," James said murderously. They both froze, picking up on the double entendre of his words.

His door loomed behind him, the evening was at a close, and Thomas was painfully aware of the fact that he didn't want this to be over.

He had kissed James Flint twice at this point, but those chaste, stolen drops of sunshine hadn't come anywhere near how he truly wanted to kiss him. Thomas didn't want drops of sunshine. He wanted to burn.

And yet…

They had only just met. It didn't matter that Thomas had never been drawn to anybody like this before, or connected to anyone so quickly in his life. It didn't matter that he was already picturing lazy Sunday mornings with James, bright flowers in his kitchen and a second toothbrush next to the sink.

The fact was, he'd only yelled his way into James's life yesterday morning. Jesus... How had it barely been more than a day?

Thomas leaned back against his door, more to keep himself from reaching out to James than anything else.

"I had a wonderful time," James said, and Thomas nodded.

"I-" he coughed, clearing his throat. "I did too. Really."

James stuck his hands into his pockets. Maybe he was trying to keep them to himself as well.

"I very badly want to invite you in."

There. He'd said it. Miranda always told him he could be too direct for his own good. But Thomas had refused to be ashamed of what he wanted for a long time now. He hoped James was feeling the same way.

James blinked, drawing Thomas in. His eyes were so very green. What would those eyes look like when Thomas had him spread underneath him, panting and crying out his name? He swallowed past the sudden surge of _want_ , and set his jaw. Dammit.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't - I know we just met, and this was our first date…"

"Right, of course. First date."

They stood there awkwardly. Thomas was just about to tell James to forget it, they'd see each other tomorrow, after all, when James spoke up.

"You know, _technically_ , this could be considered a second date. Some might say last night was our first."

James's meaning settled in Thomas's chest and his eyes widened in delight. He grinned slowly. "Of course, _technically_ , you'd be right."

Pulling his hands out of his pockets, James stepped right into Thomas's personal space. Thomas's eyes fluttered shut for a second.

"So… technically," James said, and oh _fuck_ , how had his voice suddenly gone so deep? "The usual first date rules shouldn't apply."

Thomas managed to hold back all of two more seconds before he muttered, "Thank God." He looped his fingers into James's jeans, pulling him forward, and kissing him.

They tumbled through Thomas's front door, James sliding his hands underneath Thomas's shirt, making him groan at the contact. He sucked James's tongue into his mouth, revelling in his moan, swallowing it down.

Thomas kicked the door shut behind them and pushed James back against it, knocking the cap off his head.

He wanted everything. He wanted to touch every inch of skin, kiss every freckle. Thomas groaned when James pulled their hips together, feeling his hardness through his jeans, feeling how much James wanted him as well.

They tripped through Thomas's apartment, pausing every few steps because James had discovered that spot on Thomas's neck that drove him wild, or because Thomas scraped his nails across James's back and his knees had almost buckled, or because Thomas slammed his knee into a chair and cursed loudly, leading both of them to dissolve into fits of laughter.

By the time they made it to the bed, Thomas had lost his shirt, and James was hopping on one foot, trying to get his boot off while Thomas kissed him, laughing and trying to keep their lips attached through James's bouncing.

"Thomas, mmph, Thomas just give me a second to-"

Thomas pushed James onto the bed and kneeled on the floor, pulling James's boots off for him.

James was staring at him like he'd never seen anything quite like him before and Thomas grinned, climbing onto James lap and grinding down, making both of them moan in anticipated relief.

He leaned his forehead against James's, eyes falling shut, breathing through his need. When he opened them again, he was met with blown pupils, a sliver of piercing green left, and James's ragged breathing.

"Thomas..." James brushed their lips together. Thomas took it as an invitation to take what he wanted.

He pulled James's shirt over his head, eyes trailing hungrily over the expanse of pale skin, brown freckles, and defined muscles. There was a light dusting of ginger hair across his chest, and more below his navel, trailing to the waist of his jeans. Thomas dragged his fingers down, taking note of the hitch in James's breathing, and rose on his knees to undo the buttons and zipper, finally slipping a hand inside to brush his fingers against James's cock.

James groaned, digging into Thomas's hips, his own hips shifting, trying to get more friction.

"Lay back," Thomas told him, and James collapsed backwards, lifting his hips off the bed so Thomas could drag his jeans and pants off.

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, when he finally had James Flint completely naked and spread out on his bed.

And he was. Something pulled at Thomas's heartstrings, overwhelming him for a moment, not with desire, but with a need to protect, to take care of James. This man he had only met yesterday, who had only just come into his life, had already found a perfectly shaped space to fill, one Thomas had not realized had been empty. He wanted to keep him - this beautiful man who had always known love, and had still felt lost in his own life, still felt alone - Thomas was going to make sure he knew he belonged here, with him.

He took his own shoes off and pulled his jeans down, eyes never leaving James's face. James was leaning up on his elbows, watching him with hunger in his eyes. Thomas couldn't get to him fast enough.

They groaned at the first contact of skin on skin, warmth soaking into Thomas as he kissed James again, fingers tangled in his hair, teeth biting and desperate. James rolled them over so quickly, Thomas found himself blinking up at the ceiling, with James trailing kisses down his neck to his chest. He arched his back when James took a nipple into his mouth, an electric jolt of arousal shooting straight to his cock. James gave his other nipple the same treatment, but didn't stop there, instead kissing, licking and biting his way down until Thomas held his breath, James's lips hovering above his shaft.

The first touch of James's lips to his cock was heaven, and his eyes actually rolled back into his head when James took him fully into his mouth, the wet heat surrounding him and making reality disappear.

"James!" He gasped, hands going to the top of James's head, resting there, not wanting to push, but _wanting_ so desperately, _more, more, more._

James's tongue curled around him, and Thomas made a distinctly undignified noise when he started moving his head, the friction and the slide of his mouth so perfect, Thomas wouldn't last.

"James, James, please, I-" He shook his head, trying to clear it, his toes curling when James hollowed his cheeks and _sucked_.

"Oh, fuck!"

All he got in response was a hum that vibrated up his back and raised goose pimples across his skin.

"You have to stop, I'm going to come like this and I-" Christ, he wanted to fuck him.

James pulled off with an absolutely obscene pop, and Thomas shivered.

He was kneeling in between Thomas's legs, his own cock hard and shining with precum, his lips swollen from kisses and sucking Thomas off, and Jesus… Thomas could come just from the sight of him.

"What do you want, Thomas?"

Thomas closed his eyes, breathing deeply for a moment, before sitting up, taking James's face in his hands and kissing him. He tasted himself on James's tongue and it sent a thrill through him.

"Can I fuck you?" he asked when he pulled away.

James's throat clicked as he swallowed. Thomas was amazed how someone who'd been practically deep throating him a moment ago could blush so wonderfully now.

"Yes," James murmured.. "That would be- yes."

"Are you sure?" He'd never been one to press. "Because if not, we can-" but James silenced him with another kiss.

"Thomas, right now, and I say this in all sincerity, there is literally nothing I can think of that I want more than your cock in me."

"Oh my _God_." He turned them, pushing James back on the bed, and biting down into his shoulder.

He pulled a condom and lube out of the bedside cabinet, and fucking hell, his hands were shaking.

"When's the last time you did this?" he asked James.

"Maybe three months, give or take? Go slow."

Thomas nodded. He slicked a finger and slowly pushed in to James.

James hissed, arching his back, and Thomas waited, buried to the knuckle inside of him.

"Alright?"

James nodded. "Fuck, I forgot how good this feels," he said, his voice _wrecked_.

Thomas worked and stretched him, hanging on every gasp, trying to memorize the image of James spread out on his bed like this, with Thomas fingering him.

When James had become accustomed to one finger, Thomas added more lube and a second one.

"Fuck!" James panted and squirmed, pushing back against Thomas's hand. Thomas had the heady revelation that he could probably get James off on his fingers alone. He twisted his hand, searching until he finally brushed against James's prostate.

James bucked, crying out, and his cock twitched, spilling even more precum.

"Jesus Christ, James."

James's eyes were screwed shut, his hands gripping the sheets. That delicious flush had spread all the way down his chest to his stomach, and Thomas leaned forward, laying a soft kiss below his navel.

"More?"

"Hngh."

Thomas began working James in earnest, scissoring his fingers and he moved in and out, adding more lube when James needed it, until James was begging underneath him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Thomas, I can't. Please - _please_ Thomas, just- I'm ready, _please_."

The begging went straight to his cock and Thomas pulled his fingers out, leaving James a whimpering mess while he rolled on the condom and slicked himself up. He pushed James's knees back, groaning at the sight of him, stretched and ready, and finally pushed forward gently. The initial resistance gave way and then Thomas was sliding into tight heat, both of them groaning when Thomas bottomed out.

Thomas bit his lip, hanging his head as he breathed through the pleasure, trying not to come before they'd even got started.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I'm - Thomas. I'm not gonna last long."

Thomas shook his head. "Me neither." They grinned at each other, laughing. When Thomas pulled out and quickly slammed back in, James cried out, but he was still laughing.

"Fuck! Fuck, Thomas!"

And for some reason, that set something off in Thomas and the entire scenario was suddenly unbearably hilarious. He lost it, even as he pulled out and thrust in again.

"No - stop - stop laughing you wanker!" James exclaimed, pushing back against the headboard to counter-thrust, but he was laughing too, and neither of them seemed to be able to calm down, even when it was clear James was on the edge, tensing beneath him, needing just that little bit more to get off. Thomas, breathless with mirth and his own impending orgasm, reached between them and gripped James's cock, working him until, with a cry, James was spilling all over his stomach, clenching so tightly around Thomas's shaft he followed him seconds later, pumping into him until he was entirely spent.

They were still giggling when Thomas pulled out, little tremors and aftershocks shivering through him, and he collapsed next to James, completely exhausted and content.

"Fuck, I have to clean us up," he said breathlessly, and James snorted, but the fit of laughter had finally passed. They smiled stupidly at each other, and Thomas managed to drag himself out of bed with a groan.

He disposed of the condom and came back with a warm, damp cloth, wiping gently at James's stomach as he hummed with his eyes closed, smiling softly.

When Thomas climbed back into bed, James immediately rolled on top of him, settling between his legs, and laying his cheek against Thomas's stomach.

"That was a good first date." James murmured.

"Second date," Thomas corrected him, " _second_. We're not harlots."

"No, of course, you're right. My apologies."

Thomas hadn't felt this relaxed in ages. He lifted his hand, running his fingers through James's hair. The copper strands glowed even more in the soft yellow light of his bedroom. James's weight was a lovely comfort, and he never wanted to move again.

"Hey," he said softly. "What you said earlier tonight? About feeling like a trespasser in your own life?"

James nodded.

"I used to feel that way. When I realized my father had ended up dictating my life from another continent... that I'd let him into my life through the choices I made? For a while I felt that way, like my life wasn't my own. Like I'd betrayed myself somehow. I've never been able to put it quite as succinctly as you did, but you hit the nail on the head."

James rumbled his assent. "Do you still feel that way?" he asked.

Thomas shook his head. "Not for a while, no. I'm sorry you still do."

James's fingers trailed over his side, circling his tattoo there, before trailing to the one on his arm.

"Tell me about your tattoos?"

Thomas tilted his head as best he could to watch James's face, then propped himself up on his elbows.

"Well, this one, on my back..." He turned slightly so James could get a look at his right shoulder, "is a tempest in a teacup. I had it done for Miranda."

James frowned, tracing the tattoo with his thumb. "Isn't it 'storm in a teacup'?"

Thomas nodded, shivering at the touch. "Yes. And it's 'tempest in a teapot' over here." He settled back down. "After I moved to New York I was lonely. I missed home, I missed life in London, and I missed my only true friend. When I first became interested in tattoos, and finally decided to get one, I thought long and hard about what I wanted and what it should mean. Miranda is such a big part of me, inking her into my skin seemed like a logical thing to do."

Thomas gave James a wry smile. James nodded, signaling Thomas to go on.

"So Miranda is Shakespearean, she was his heroine in …"

"The Tempest," James said in realization.

"Yes. And my Miranda, not The Tempest Miranda, collects tea cups, adores them like nothing else. It's this odd little quirk she's had since before I knew her. Buys one everywhere she goes. And her personality…" Thomas snorted. "Underneath her demure appearance lies an excessive dramatic flair no one expects. She is the embodiment of a tempest in a teacup, let me tell you."

"That's perfect. And combining the idioms?"

"Was like a link back home. It all fit."

James turned him so he could get another look. "It's lovely, really it is. What did she think of it?"

Thomas smiled. "She laughed, but I think she was quite touched. I caught her sniffing and wiping at her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking."

"And this one?" James asked, tracing the words _Know no shame_ on Thomas's bicep.

"Hmmm, that one's rather self explanatory. Like I told you yesterday, in this house there is no shame. It comes from years of living in a home where shame informed everything I did."

James frowned, then leaned down to kiss the tattoo gently. Thomas's breath caught, and it took him a moment before he could speak again.

"That one, on my left side is a rocky promontory." He watched James trace the perfect circle encompassing rocky cliffs, with the sea crashing in waves upon it.

"A what?" he asked.

"You should be like a rocky promontory," Thomas quoted, "against which the restless surf continuously pounds. It stands fast while the churning sea is lulled to sleep at its feet." He trailed his fingers up and down James's back, tracing patterns of freckles. "It's from Meditations - Marcus Aurelius. It's to remind myself that the outside world will not change who I am, as long as I hold fast to what I believe."

James traced the cliffs in the image. "You can really just quote Marcus Aurelius in a pinch, huh?" he teased playfully.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "I went to Eton, you know."

"Wow," James was laughing, "so you're a right and proper toff!"

"Piss off."

"That's hardly how an old Etonian should be speaking, _my lord_."

Thomas smacked his shoulder, but he laughed too. "You can hardly blame me for being forced to go. I was a _Hamilton_ , it was always understood I would go to Eton. Of course, when I started there, I was only just beginning to realize I preferred the attentions of boys over girls. My father didn't pick up on my preferences until a couple of years later. Thirteen, I think? I never would have told him, but he caught me holding hands with a boy from town." Thomas frowned. "What was his name? Devon? Danny? He was nice to me, and we'd get hot chocolates together, and we had a whirlwind summer romance, which of course meant we exchanged exactly two kisses and blushed madly every time we looked at each other."

Thomas sighed.

"My father forbade me from seeing him again, and contacted the headmaster to inform him that he should be taking a heavier hand in my discipline. Maybe the headmaster would be able to stamp out the _buggery nonsense_."

"Christ," James murmured. "Your father said that?"

"Hmmm. Still sent me back to school though, and as it turns out, sending a young gay man to an all boys' school has the very opposite effect of what my father intended."

"I'm shocked." Thomas grinned at James's bone-dry tone.

"I had several boyfriends at Eton, and had become quite experienced in 'buggery nonsense' by the time I left, as I'm sure you noticed."

James laughed. "That I did."

They lay like that for a few more minutes, silent for long enough that Thomas started to drift, lulled by James's warmth and the hypnotic rise and fall of his freckled shoulders. And while he could picture no better end to the day than falling asleep with James in his arms, he also wanted to keep talking to him until the sun came up.

"Say something in your original accent," Thomas asked, voice soft, and James lifted his head, resting his chin on Thomas's chest.

"Yeah?"

Thomas shrugged. James shifted with the movement. "I'm curious."

James paused, thinking, and then in the heaviest Scottish accent Thomas had ever heard, said, "Ye hae th' prettiest hair I've ever seen. It's loch spin gauld."

Oh.

 _Oh_.

James's voice sounded like it had dropped an octave, and the way he rolled the guttural consonants on his tongue... The blush came on sudden and warm, his cheeks burning, and with it a definite stirring in his cock. His breath left him all in a rush, and he lifted his arm over his eyes, hiding his face.

James froze on top of him, pushing against Thomas's hardening cock.

"Really?" He sounded delighted, his accent reverting back to Queen's English. "The accent?"

"Believe me," Thomas said, letting out a shuddering breath, "I'm surprised too." But regardless of how affected he was, he was too close to sleep to rouse himself to full interest. "Next time," he told James with promise, letting his arm drop. "Next time."

James laughed, ducking his face and pressing his nose to Thomas's chest.

"Mmm. Next time," he murmured against Thomas's skin.

"James?"

"Hmm?" He was fading fast. They both were.

"I'm glad I'm allergic to wisteria."

James sighed, melting into Thomas.

"Me too," he said.

They slept.


	3. Chapter 3

The incessant ringing of his doorbell woke Thomas the following morning. He blinked at the bright sunlight, checking his phone for the time. It was only just past 9, and while he'd normally be up by now, he'd had a very eventful night, and was not feeling kindly towards whoever was at his door.

He pulled his arm gently from beneath James's head, fascinated by how violently ginger he was, asleep in the sunlight, and leaned down to brush a kiss across his shoulder before pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms and heading towards the living room, closing his bedroom door behind him. Maybe he'd get the coffee going. He could make James breakfast.

He smiled serenely. Then his doorbell rang again.

"I'm coming! One moment! Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, flinging the door open, to find none other than Miranda soon-to-be Barlow beaming back at him.

"Hello, darling!" she exclaimed, and walked right in.

"Mi-Miranda?" Thomas spluttered, gaping at her as she dropped her coat and purse on his sofa and immediately made herself at home in his kitchen, pulling off a pair of leather gloves, one finger at a time. He shut the door, and blinked at her, language escaping him.

"Yes, it's me, of course. Were you expecting someone else?"

"Why on earth would I expect _you_?" Thomas exclaimed, bewildered at her presence in his flat. Here. On this side of the Atlantic. "You were on a different continent when I last spoke to you, which was yesterday bloody morning, you might recall!"

"Hmmm. Well. You hung up on me, quite rudely, as _you_ may recall." She'd dropped her gloves on the counter and was now rummaging through his fridge. "And then I had a thought," she stated, pulling out the orange juice and eyeing it with consideration.

Thomas groaned. The last time Miranda had "had a thought", he'd ended up hungover on a beach in Majorca, somehow missing both his wallet and his passport, but in possession of no less than three different men's phone numbers.

"I suddenly realized there was no reason I should have to be married in London. Why drag you so far away? It's not as though I haven't already had a dream wedding twice over, after all. I can get married just as easily in New York as anywhere else."

"So you got on a plane and flew over? Where's Teddy?"

"Oh, I left him at the Waldorf," she said, pouring a glass of juice and taking a sip.

Thomas bit back a vaguely hysterical laugh. "Miranda, a wedding still takes time to plan, it'll be at least several weeks before you-"

"Yes, well. I'll plan it here. Now I get to meet your handsome, ginger florist."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Are you telling me you flew all the way over here because I wouldn't put you on the phone with James yesterday?"

"Ah! His name is James?"

"Christ, Miranda, you can't - this is- you're-"

Miranda set her glass down and waved her hand. "You can tell me exactly what you think I am over breakfast. Now let's get you dressed!" And before Thomas could stop her, she was heading for his bedroom door.

"Miranda! No!"

A loud, strangled yell and a thud that sounded like someone falling off of the bed came from his room and Thomas dropped his face into his hands.

"Oh. Well. I guess his freckles _do_ go all the way down, after all!"

* * *

 _Fucking DUCK_

 _*DUCK_

 _*FUCK_

 _jesus christ autocorrect_

 _the blonde sasquatch thinks he should get cred for the royl chamb reviewing our petition_

 _I can't handle him when hes like this james he's insufferable_

 _my wife thinks i need a holiday she wants to take me to one of those soda things_

 _Dammit SPA things SPA_

James laughed out loud, setting his phone aside.

"Everything alright?" Thomas asked, tilting his head. "That was a lot of texts."

"Yes," James replied, "it's Billy again."

"Billy?" Miranda asked, sipping at her coffee.

They were at a nice cafe up the street. Miranda had insisted on taking them both out for breakfast. In truth, what she'd actually said was, "You must be ravenous. Exercise will do that to you," and then she'd _winked_. James was still blushing an hour later.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected. Thomas had warned him, after all, but nothing was quite enough to prepare someone for the sheer force of will and mischievous spirit that was Miranda. James had yanked his jeans back on in a rush, tripping over his feet two more times, while Miranda had quirked her lips and turned to give him privacy.

"It would have been polite to give me some warning," she'd called to Thomas, who'd responded with a string of words no one in polite English society would ever utter, but Miranda had just laughed.

Thomas had banished her from his room shortly after, apologized profusely to James, and then kissed any embarrassment from his mind.

"She's always like that. Are you going to be alright? I can get you out of breakfast if-"

James had cut him off with another kiss. "It's fine. Really." And then, because it was entirely unfair that he should be the one experiencing all the mortification this morning, he'd said, "So you were wondering about my freckles?"

Thomas had turned bright red, mumbled something about finding a shirt, and disappeared into his closet.

Now, with a plate of scones in front of them, and coffees all around, James felt a little more equipped to handle the outside world.

"Billy runs one of my London branches. He's a bit of a handful, but resourceful. My other manager, Gates has… some trouble with him at times."

Miranda raised an eyebrow. " _One_ of your London branches? How many branches do you have?"

James smiled. "Just the three. Two in London and the one here."

" _Just_ the three?" She scoffed. "I wouldn't say that's _just_ anything, but alright." Her eyes narrowed and James could swear she was looking straight through him. "How does a florist from Scotland end up doing well enough to expand overseas?" she asked shrewdly.

This felt like some sort of competition, and if that was the case, James was determined to win. He shrugged. "Business is business. And I have an MBA from Oxford, so I'm sure you can work it all out."

Thomas froze while pouring himself a glass of water, and Miranda stopped with her coffee halfway to her mouth.

Then all at once she set the mug back down, laughing, and the tension broke. "Oh I _do_ like him, Thomas. He's lovely."

James settled back in his chair, letting his shoulders relax a little bit more.

It was nice. Miranda was nice, and Thomas was easy with her. He was happy, and more than once over breakfast, James caught himself staring, still a little bit in awe the last two days had happened at all.

"Okay, here's one, and if you get it, I will be very surprised," Miranda teased.

"Alright then, go." Thomas settled back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin, like some blond and beautifully god-like Sherlock Holmes waiting to solve a mystery.

James sighed.

"Very well. You ready?"

Thomas rolled his eyes.

" _And now, dearest, we return, across the crackling sea, like two blind birds to their wall, to their nest in a distant spring_ …" Miranda trailed off, and without thinking, James jumped in.

"Pablo Neruda," he said. " _Love, We're Going Home Now_."

Miranda's mouth fell open in a small "o" of surprise and Thomas gaped. James's face went red. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"No, not at all," Thomas practically stumbled over his words. "No it's - quite alright actually." He swallowed, and his eyes - well, his eyes had gone dark, like they had last night, when Thomas had wanted to kiss him.

Miranda's eyes sparkled. "You are just full of surprises, aren't you?"

James tried to shrug it off. "As I said, Oxford."

"Oh, no." Miranda wagged a finger at him. "You're not getting out of this that easily. Last I checked, Spanish poetry wasn't a requirement for an MBA."

This snapped Thomas back to himself. "Spanish poetry!" he blustered. "Cheater! Vile betrayal! Shame upon your descendants! You know I'm useless unless it's English."

Miranda laughed, as did James, and Thomas grumbled a bit more, but finally asked a waiter to bring them the check.

"Oh!" Miranda exclaimed. "I've just had a thought!"

"Oh, no." Thomas sighed deeply.

Miranda smacked his arm without even looking at him. "You'll do my wedding!"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My wedding, James! This is perfect! As it happens, I need a florist, and here you are! And apparently you're even quite good."

Thomas tried coming to his rescue. "Miranda, shouldn't you ask Teddy before you-"

"Why would I ask Teddy? It's not like he knows anything about planning a wedding. Meanwhile, I've planned two."

"When will you be getting married?" James asked, and Thomas shot him a look that clearly said, _don't encourage her_. James grinned.

"Oh, who knows? Probably around three weeks from now, give or take. I have to find a venue."

Thomas turned his face towards the ceiling in supplication.

"You - you don't have a venue yet?" James glanced between them. That was impossible. What was the point in even discussing any of this if she didn't have a venue?

Miranda picked up a scone, breaking off a flaky piece and popping it in her mouth. "No."

"I - but. This is New York City, you know, right? Manhattan?"

"Yes. And?"

Thomas shook his head at James's bewilderment.

"Oh, just say yes, dear. Leave the venue to me. There will be one, I promise. But say you'll do the flowers?" Miranda's eyes were wide and pleading and James found himself unable to refuse her.

"I- yes. Yes, alright."

"Lovely! I'll call Teddy and tell him!"

* * *

James didn't have as much time for Thomas over the following week as he would have liked.

The Wisteria wedding came and went, as did two others. He _did_ end up landing the Met event, to Gates's delight, and there were consultations and meetings with the event planners to get through. The phone wouldn't stop ringing, and he was almost overbooked for April and near-to for May, with the summer filling up fast.

Then there were walk-ins and regular orders. He'd known he'd have to hire more help besides Howell. Howell did alright with instructions and was great with customers, but absolute shite if left to his own devices.

James spent Tuesday interviewing applicants, in between scrambling for the phone and organizing more arrangements, and finally hired a nice young woman by the name of Idelle. But James wasn't an idiot. It still wasn't going to be enough. He and Howell were in over their heads - James hadn't expected so much work so shortly after opening. The first shop had taken ages to gain traction, and even the second one had taken a good two months or so to pick up speed.

The applicants kept coming, but by the time late afternoon set in, James still hadn't found anyone else. Then the shop bell rang and Max Toussaint walked into Walrus Cottage Blooms for the first time.

"You were looking for a manager?"

Her accent was heavy Brooklyn, though there was a lilt to it… something that sounded vaguely French.

"Well, _I'm_ the manager, but-"

Max cut him off. "You're the _owner_. And the creativity behind…" she gestured at the myriad arrangements on display, "all of this. But you can't do that and manage too. So." She flipped her hair and stepped forward, holding out her hand. "I'm Max Toussaint. I'm your new manager."

James took her hand automatically before the rest of what she'd said caught up with him.

"No, wait, I'm just looking for a-"

Max walked past him into the back room. "This is where you work, right? You know, if you added some shelving on the left there, you'd free up this space here." She gestured to the wall behind her. "And you could keep foam and additional trays there too."

"I-" Huh. She was right.

"How many other employees do we have?"

" _I_ have two other employees, but I don't think-"

"What are their schedules like?"

James stared at her, completely at a loss.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. Give me their numbers and I'll call them tonight and work it all out. I'll also need a complete schedule of our events, including the ones we're trying to land, our suppliers' numbers, the car company we use to transport arrangements for big events. You know the drill, this isn't your first branch, right?"

James stood with his mouth hanging open and Max leaned in with a cheeky grin. "I did my research, Mr. Flint. And believe me. You want me working for you."

She stepped back and winked. "I'll be in at 8:30 tomorrow morning. I left my card on your desk. Email me that info, yeah?" She pulled her sunglasses off of the top of her head as she headed for the door. She stopped at the last moment and turned.

"Oh, and I expect 15% more than whatever your other employees are making. Just letting you know. Have a good one!"

Then she was gone as quickly as she'd appeared.

He was still flabbergasted the following night, though he'd shifted from indignant astonishment to awe.

"And she showed up this morning?"

James shrugged, his shoulder bumping Thomas's as they walked home after dinner. "Yes. And she really had worked out a perfect schedule, and had already spoken to one of my suppliers about an extra shipment of orchids I need for next week."

James had never seen anything like it. Gates was either going to love her or hate her.

"I still can't believe you actually sent her all the information. What if she'd been a corporate spy?"

James snorted. "Yes, the world of flowers is a cut-throat business, full of trade secrets and espionage. You can call me James Frond, 00-Daisy."

Thomas laughed and the warm sound of it traveled down to James's toes.

"Anyway," James continued, kicking at a fallen leaf, "you can thank her for our date tonight. It was shaping up to be another impossible day and she took over. We were done by six."

They'd reached their end of Sullivan street at last, and Thomas turned James to face him as they stopped in front of the flower shop.

"I'll have to send her a thank you note, then," Thomas said softly, dipping his head to kiss him.

James sighed into it, warm all over despite the cold night air. He pulled away, resting his forehead against Thomas's.

"You know," he said, his eyes still closed. "The wisteria's gone."

Thomas straightened up. "Oh, is it?"

"Mmm." He nodded, mesmerized by those brilliant blue eyes. "Walrus Cottage Blooms is now officially wisteria free. Would you like to come up to my flat?"

Thomas kissed him again.

"I would like that. I would like that very much."

* * *

"Welcome to Walrus Cottage Blooms. What can I help you with?"

James had barely registered the sound of the shop bell or Max's welcome. He was too focused on the bridal bouquet he was finishing, pinning the ends of the ribbon in place.

"I was looking for James Flint, is he here?"

James pricked his finger with a pearl pin and cursed.

"Oh, never mind, there he is!"

A moment later, Miranda swept into the back room.

"Everything okay in here?" Max poked her head after her.

"Yes, Max. Thank you. Why don't you go grab yourself a coffee? Pick something up for Idelle too, she should be here any moment." He handed her some cash.

"Aye, aye, captain. Just FYI, we should be getting a call back from the Met sometime in the next ten minutes. So answer the phone if I'm not here, okay?"

"You know I've been running shops since before you started secondary school, right?" he yelled after her.

"Sure, cap!"

The shop bell rang.

James sighed and Miranda raised her eyebrows.

"Captain?"

He shrugged. "She started it, and now all my employees call me captain. I don't mind."

"Captain Flint… Sounds like a pirate," Miranda mused. "A pirate florist. Lovely."

Wariness set in. In a hesitant voice, James asked, "How can I help you, Miranda?"

"Oh, look at you! You're nervous. Don't worry, dear. You don't need Thomas here as a buffer. I don't bite."

James wasn't sure that was true.

"I came by to tell you I've settled on a venue. The Four Seasons, three weeks from Friday night."

Jame's jaw dropped. "The Four Seasons? In three weeks? That's the middle of May! How did you swing that?"

"Oh, they were very nice! They had an opening for me, just when I wanted it, and they were so glad to accommodate the short notice."

James was still trying to wrap his head around it all.

"Anyway, I have a fitting for a dress in an hour, and thought I'd stop by and let you know. It will be a small wedding, 100 guests at most, so we're looking at ten centerpieces, a bridal bouquet, three bridesmaids, boutonnières for the groomsmen and for dear Teddy. I'm sure you know what you're all about. Pale pinks and purples, I think, this time around. No wisteria, of course." She laughed.

James had pulled out a pen and was scribbling it all on a piece of paper.

Miranda sat down. "And there was something else I wanted to talk to you about."

James glanced at her, expecting more wedding discussions, but her expression made him straighten up and put his pen down.

"I'm not one to give the 'protective best friend' talk. Thomas is fully capable of taking care of himself and making his own decisions. He has been for a long time. But maybe that's why I feel like I need to say something this time around."

Worry settled in his stomach like a stone. Did Miranda not approve of him? Was she going to tell him to stay away from Thomas? Or worse? Tell Thomas she didn't think they were a good match?

"I like you, James. Quite a lot. And so does Thomas. I've never seen him like this with anyone, and I shouldn't be telling you that, but you need to understand." Miranda spread her hands out on the table, her red nails a sharp contrast to the wooden grain, and her wrists so very delicate. The diamond of her engagement ring sparkled. He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

"Thomas has been through immeasurable pain, and has somehow still managed to retain a steadfast heart and a kindness most people would have lost long ago.

"I am a very good judge of character. I don't think I need to tell you to be careful with his heart, because I have a feeling you're already nearly as invested as I am in keeping him happy. It's a bit of a miracle really, how long have you known each other?"

James coughed, embarrassed. "Erm, six days?"

Miranda shook her head and smiled. " _Hear my soul speak:_ _The very instant that I saw you did my heart fly to your service…_ " she murmured, and even though James was fairly certain he wasn't meant to respond, he thought of soft, pale skin, bright ink, and the slope of Thomas's shoulder and said:

"Shakespeare. The Tempest."

Miranda's eyes flew to his and understanding passed between them.

"No one expects love… Be gentle with him. Please."

James nodded.

That night, James laid Thomas in his bed, surrounded by soft moonlight, and flowers and the warmth of the down blanket, and kissed the beginnings of promises into his skin. He trailed tomorrows across his stomach and pulled possibilities from Thomas's lips with every gasp and moan.

James sank onto him, pulling Thomas up, touching his forehead to Thomas's and breathing, shaking, _needing_. He rode him like that, his own cock trapped between their bodies, so tightly wrapped around each other James couldn't differentiate between them. And when Thomas came, arching his back, crying out James's name, he swallowed it with his own kiss and followed him over into forever.


	4. Chapter 4

It happened over breakfast.

Saturday morning brought rain. Dark clouds, and mild thunder, and the sound of heavy drops drumming against the windows and the glass balcony door, the yellow light of the lamp beside the sofa enveloping him in warm light. They'd just turned up the radiator, but the chill had set in during the night, and Thomas shrugged deeper into the jumper he was wearing, feet pulled up on the sofa beneath the blanket they'd dragged from James's bed.

James's apartment was a riot of color. There were flowers everywhere, bright colored walls, and James himself, auburn and vibrant and so very alive. Here, he existed in a pocket of summer, hiding from April's treachery. The smell of fried eggs and coffee surrounded him, James was humming something off key in front of the stove, and Thomas thought, _I'm falling in love with him_.

It didn't matter that he'd met James just over a week ago. It didn't matter that falling in love in so short a time should be impossible.

Thomas blinked, and reality shifted. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed, except everything had changed.

Reality swelled in his chest like a balloon, almost painful in the fullness of it, and utterly inescapable.

 _I'm falling in love with James Flint._

He might possibly already _be_ in love with James Flint.

His breathing hitched and he pressed a hand to his own chest, his heart thrumming in time with the rain.

Bare feet appeared in his field of vision, and he followed them up, all the way up, to find James holding a tray with their breakfast, frowning in concern.

"You alright?"

Thomas beamed, his smile full and helpless, his cheeks flushing with his newfound revelation. James was soft around the edges, hair sticking up, tattered t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder, his sweatpants hanging low, and those lovely bare feet. His lips were swollen from their morning kisses, and the aura of sleep still hung around him. The intimacy of it hurt in the most wonderful way.

He nodded.

"Budge up, then," he told Thomas, and set the tray on the coffee table. Thomas made room for him and James sat, immediately pulling Thomas's feet into his lap.

He couldn't tell him, not yet. It was the most exciting realization Thomas had ever had, and he'd never wanted to share something more than he wanted to share this with James. But he wasn't ready. There would be time, and he didn't have to rush it. The truth lived in him all the same.

James already knew how he took his coffee, and he'd bought mushrooms to put in Thomas's omelette, even though James hated them. James couldn't abide sleeping with socks on, even though Thomas had to when it was cold. And there was a cluster of freckles at the base of James's spine he had spent five minutes learning by heart last night as he'd fingered him until James had cried out, desperate for Thomas to be inside him, and for now, that was good enough.

* * *

When Miranda called him to finally come and meet Teddy in person, Thomas wasn't sure what he expected. Both of Miranda's previous husbands had been charming, suave, and remarkably good-looking, in addition to being very wealthy.

Those marriages had ended with mistresses, heartbreak, and Miranda walking away with newfound fortunes of her own.

It was no more than those wankers deserved.

Thomas supposed he expected more of the same. Some rich, gorgeous, dark and tall pillar of society, hopefully marrying Miranda for _Miranda_ this time around, and not for her connections.

Well. He was surprised, that was for certain. Whether he was _pleasantly_ surprised, Thomas didn't know. What he was sure of was that he was… underwhelmed, to be honest.

 _Teddy_.

Teddy, to Thomas, seemed like no more and no less than the embodiment of the color beige.

The only thing Thomas could say in Teddy's favor was he was clearly head-over-heels in love with Miranda. More than any of Miranda's previous suitors had been. Thomas wasn't quite sure he'd ever seen _any_ man so enamoured with a woman before in his life.

"Teddy and I put together our registry this morning. We had a lovely time, didn't we, dear?" Miranda's eyes gleamed and her teeth shone as she smiled at Teddy, and the man was lost. The way he stared at her, one could believe he'd been waiting his entire life for that smile. Here was a man who could hardly believe how lucky he was that the universe had brought him and Miranda together.

Thomas was familiar with the feeling. He didn't begrudge Teddy one ounce of it, no matter how boring he was.

"The china you selected was lovely. I still think you should have put the second set on the registry as well, perhaps as a backup set?" Teddy leaned in to her like she was the sun and he was trapped in her orbit, wanting nothing more than to stay there forever.

Teddy garnered a few extra points for that comment. He may have been bland, but at least he was doting on Miranda as befit her.

Thomas eyed the man's clothes. He was wealthy. That much was clear. His suit was well made, if somewhat dull, his watch gold. To be fair, he had to have money to be able to afford to marry Miranda at all. She had expensive tastes and couldn't help it. A wedding at the Four Seasons, a month long honeymoon in the Caribbean. He wasn't quite sure what Teddy did for a living, the man had explained at some point, and Thomas had found himself zoning out.

Whatever it was, it enabled him to pick up and fly off halfway across the world at the whim of his fiancee without a moment's trouble.

Miranda was laughing at something Teddy had said. She was truly happy. Her eyes sparkled and Teddy soaked up her laughter like a desert soaked up rain.

Well. That was alright then.

"Teddy, I've finished my coffee. Would you be a dear and get me another one? I'd like to talk to Thomas alone for a bit."

And Teddy… Christ, Teddy wasn't put out at all. He just nodded, kissed her cheek and went off to get in line again.

Thomas watched him go with a raised eyebrow. "He's more cocker spaniel than fiance, I'd say."

Miranda smacked his arm, and Thomas grimaced theatrically.

"Don't you dare. Teddy is doing his best. And he's sweet."

Thomas grinned at her teasingly. "Dear, sweet Teddy." Very well, the man had passed muster, but he still had to ask. "Honestly though, Miranda. What… what do you see in him?"

Miranda sighed. "Can't you just for once-" she caught his eyes. "No, I suppose you can't, can you?"

Thomas waited.

Miranda shrugged. "He - he makes me laugh. _Honestly_ ," she added, at Thomas's incredulity. "I know people find him dull, but..." She shook her head. "There's something comforting in that. There's something comforting in knowing that he'll never want anyone else, never be drawn to anyone but me. I - I've played the game long enough, Thomas. I'm tired."

Thomas took her hand, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles. She stared at their hands for a moment and then turned her palm up to grasp his fingers.

"He can provide the life to which I have always been accustomed, he is sweet, and makes me laugh, and he _loves_ me." Miranda glanced back towards the line, and there was Teddy, smiling back at her, utterly in love and utterly ordinary and something in Thomas's heart twinged.

"He loves me, Thomas. Genuinely."

Thomas dropped his shoulders with a sigh, and brought Miranda's hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "You know me, my love. I've only ever cared that you're happy."

"I am," she told him in earnest. "Teddy is lovely. Most people would kill for a Teddy."

"I don't know." He smiled. "I'm quite happy with my James, thank you very much."

Miranda beamed at him. " _Your_ James?"

He bit his lip and kissed Miranda's hand again. "I- I think I might…" He couldn't say the words, not yet, not out loud, but Miranda understood.

"Well. There's only one thing to do, in that case."

Thomas tilted his head in question.

"Come cake tasting with me this week. Both of you."

Teddy appeared, taking his seat again after setting Miranda's coffee on the table, and not even batting an eye at their clasped hands.

Thomas smiled. "Alright. Let's eat some cake."

* * *

"Who the fuck is Max?" Gates sounded put out. More put out than usual.

"Hello, Hal. How are you? How's the family?" James asked, wiring gerbera daisies while he held the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

"Fuck you, been better, and still putting up with me so I guess that makes me a lucky bastard. Who the fuck is Max?"

"She's the new manager this side of the Atlantic."

Silent rage echoed on the other end of the line. "The new manager."

James rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"On that side of the Atlantic."

James sighed, dropping the red gerbera he was halfway done with and grabbing the phone. "Gates, you can't expect to stay on top of schedules and events in two separate time zones. You knew I'd have to get another manager eventually."

" _You_ were managing the shop. I didn't mind."

"Well, _I_ was drowning. And since Max took over we've booked two diplomatic events as well as the American Ballet's spring gala, and I'm _still_ working normal hours."

Gates was quiet for a moment. "Well, bugger me," he finally said, wonder in his voice.

"Yeah," James agreed.

They both fell silent, now that Gates's fury had subsided.

James ran a hand through his hair. "Any news on the the review?"

"Nah, the Royal Chamberlain's office hasn't got back to us yet. These things take time, I keep telling Titanosaur, but that boy's on the verge of doing something stupid again, I can feel it."

"Just keep him away from-" what? Mobile phones? Newspapers? The fucking internet? James shook his head. "Just try to keep Billy busy with other things."

"Yeah. Been doing. I know what I'm about, James. But you go on and hire a new fucking manager…"

" _Hal_."

"Fuck. Yes, alright. And I suppose it was good she called me. Said she's gonna keep me updated. She set up a weekly meeting, can you imagine?"

James could. Max was running all their lives at this point. Him, Howell and Idelle. She had her own set of keys, and had reorganized the storage room and the register desk. He wasn't arguing. He had more time for Thomas when Max was in charge.

"So, anything else I should know?"

James considered telling him about Thomas. About how this was the first time he'd ever looked forward to closing up shop. About how he was planning ahead on a personal level, in a way he never had before. About blond hair, and blue eyes, and smiles he felt down to his toes.

Picturing Gates's reaction to all of that made him laugh.

"I'm seeing someone. It's going well."

"Yeah?" Gates sounded surprised, but pleased for him.

"Yeah."

"I know a good florist for the wedding."

James laughed and hung up, but spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about what _he'd_ like in a centerpiece for a change.

* * *

James knew a fair amount about putting a wedding together. He worked in the industry. The ins and outs were common knowledge.

It was one thing to book the Four Seasons with less than three weeks' notice for a wedding in New York City. Though who was he kidding? It was fucking madness, he still had no idea how Miranda had done it.

But when Thomas told him Miranda had invited them both to taste cakes with her, he didn't expect a similar miracle a second time.

Heh.

He left Max in charge of the shop and and walked across the street to the tattoo parlor, greeting Abigail when he walked in.

"Hi, Mr. Flint," she said, without glancing up from her college textbook, chewing absently on the end of a pen.

"I've told you, you can call me James."

She nodded, frowning. "Sure thing, Mr. Flint."

James sighed.

"He's in the back?"

Abigail nodded.

"Anyone with him?"

She shook her head, making a note in one of the margins.

James followed the narrow hallway to the back room where he found Thomas cleaning up. He'd just finished packaging up his used tools in sterilization bags and was setting them into the autoclave.

James had demanded a breakdown of the process, listening raptly as Thomas had explained everything from how tattoos worked to aftercare and cleanup.

"Do I look like a _Mister_ to you?"

Thomas laughed. "That's an interesting way to start a conversation."

"Being called Mr. Flint in a business setting is one thing, but…"

"Abigail?"

James nodded.

"Well. 'Mr. Hamilton' was always my father, though heaven knows he's holding out for a lordship." He shuddered. "I suppose I understand. I could never be 'Mr. Hamilton'."

James shook his head. "My father was McGraw… I took my grandparents' name. So it's more the 'mister' than anything else that's bothering me…"

Thomas laughed. "Why _James_. It's a bit early for a mid-life crisis, wouldn't you say? Next you'll be asking me for a tattoo."

James wasn't quite ready to broach that subject yet with Thomas, but a little shiver went down his spine. Here in the back room, it was so easy to picture it. A quiet night, just the two of them, Thomas's hands on his skin, inking something permanent and beautiful and _by Thomas_ , onto his side, or his back, or his shoulder… He hadn't quite decided yet.

"So? Ready to go?" Thomas finally asked, pulling off his latex gloves with a snap, the sound bringing him back to himself. "I'll just be another minute."

James hopped up on to the client bed, watching Thomas wipe down the steel counters. There was something fascinating about how much care Thomas took to keep the place clean and sterile, and still feel comfortable and welcoming.

In truth, he'd been giving Thomas's work more and more consideration lately. He'd gone online a few nights ago, working late at the shop, and searched for more about Thomas's art. He had an entire fan following. Apparently, his last tour had been completely booked, with people lining up outside the convention centers in the snow and rain to get a tattoo by him.

James would never have guessed it. Thomas was level-headed and down-to-earth He was warm with his clients, or at least the ones James had met. There was not an ounce of pride in him, all things considered, not haughty pride at least. Perhaps pride in a job well done and in a satisfied customer.

Thomas always made it seem like _he_ was the one who was lucky to be given the chance to do this for them, not that _they_ were the lucky ones to have him.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Thomas murmured, stepping in between James's knees.

James shook his head. "I just… like watching you work."

Thomas took James's hand and kissed the knuckles lightly.

"Shall we?"

He let Thomas pull him from the table and lead him out of the back room.

"I had to reschedule with a client to meet Miranda, so I'll have to work late tonight," Thomas said, grabbing his coat by the door and pulling it on. "I'll stop by after. Oh, Abigail," he added, wrapping a scarf around his neck. "I should be back in about an hour and a half. You're alright here until then?"

"Yup." She didn't even look up from her book.

"I've got some tools sterilizing in the back. Don't forget to open the autoclave when it's done. Don't bother putting the things away, I'll do it when I get back."

"Mmmkay."

Thomas glanced at James and grinned, holding a finger to his lips. "Also, I need you to find a time slot for a couple of pirates coming in for tattoos later today."

James snorted.

Abigail finally tore herself away from her textbook with a sigh. "After-school rush doesn't start until two," she said, holding up a finger, "and I'm not expecting many walk-ins. Besides, you'll be back by then." She held up a second finger. "I know how to run the autoclave, and every other piece of equipment we have back there." A third finger. "And you're booked solid, but if you really want me to fit in some make-believe pirates, I can ask Ms. Bonny to reschedule again."

Thomas blanched, and laughed nervously. "Never mind... Forgive me, you seemed a little distracted."

Abigail lifted an eyebrow. "I'm always paying attention. _Always_."

James flashed back to yesterday morning when Abigail had been listening to music with her headphones in, typing away on her laptop. He'd pulled Thomas into the kitchenette and pushed him back against the counter, kissing him and grinding against him until they were both breathless.

The look she gave the two of them was pointed. "Yeah."

She went back to her reading.

He imagined his blush was probably as pronounced as Thomas's.

"Well then."

James took a deep breath. "So Miranda?"

"Yes, Miranda."

They hailed a cab and slid into the back seat together and finally let themselves break down laughing.

"Future snogging will happen at the flower shop, for your information," Thomas stated, cheeks still red, but with laughter.

"Right, because Max is much less perceptive than Abigail."

"Fair point."

They grinned at each other, and James threaded his fingers through Thomas's, holding his hand in his lap.

"So, where are we headed? Who's doing the cake?" James was familiar with several vendors.

"You'll see," Thomas said mysteriously.

Ten minutes later, James stood gaping at the sign for Sylvia Weinstock Cakes, the wind stinging his cheeks, as Thomas paid the cab.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he murmured.

Thomas leaned in next to him. "Yeah. Come on."

They found Miranda and Teddy already seated at a little table in the corner, Miranda laughing at something Teddy had said.

"That's Teddy?" he asked Thomas in a surprised whisper. Teddy was… not what he'd expected.

Thomas suppressed a grin. "Mmm… I had the same reaction."

He didn't get a chance to ask any more questions because Miranda had spotted them.

"Thomas! James! I'm so glad you could make it!" She got up and hugged them, kissing them each on both cheeks. James blushed, quite pleased.

Something about Miranda made him feel like she already considered him her friend, like she'd been his friend for years, instead of having met him only a week ago. It was grounding and comforting in a way he hadn't expected, after moving so far from the London.

A waiter brought them all coffee, and then rolled a small dessert cart over with enormous slices of ten different types of cake.

"Hope neither of you had lunch," Teddy said with a wink.

"How did the two of you meet?" James asked, as Miranda handed a different cake to each of them.

"Take a bite and switch, that seems the best way to do this," she said. "Keep track of the ones you like."

Teddy picked up a fork as Miranda set a dark cake with white frosting in front of him. "Oh, we met at a charity gala at the British Museum back in January." He took a bite. "Mmm. This is good. Honey and… lavender, I think? Here, taste." He scooped another piece on to his fork and fed it to Miranda. Her eyes sparkled.

Thomas and James exchanged a look and hid their grins behind their own bites of cake.

"Anyway, no one could keep their eyes off of Miranda, she was the most beautiful woman at the event."

"Oh, quiet, you'll make me blush."

Thomas snorted. "Please. If at any given moment you're not aware you're the most beautiful woman in the room, I'd be very much surprised. You and I have never believed in false modesty, Miranda."

Teddy nodded. "I'm only stating a simple fact, dear. Oh, is this chocolate and raspberry? That's my favorite!"

James was fascinated by this conversation, and by Teddy, if he was to be perfectly honest. There was something so unassumingly plain and down-to-earth about him, and he was completely un-embarrassed by his own devotion.

Miranda frowned at both Teddy and Thomas. "I should have known better than to attempt humility with the two of you here. James, be a dear and promise me you won't be swept up with these two flatterers, or else at some point my head will grow so large it might never go back to normal."

"It would still be lovely," Thomas argued, winking at her.

James took a bite of cake and hummed in surprise. "Lemon and poppy seed. I don't usually like poppy seed, but this is…" he took another bite. "So Miranda was the most beautiful woman at the event?" he prompted Teddy.

"Yes, undoubtedly." Miranda rolled her eyes but stayed silent. "She was wearing an emerald ball gown-"

"Oh, Miranda in green _is_ a sight," Thomas interjected.

"Should I be jealous?" James asked with a raised eyebrow and laughing. Thomas responded by kissing him lightly on the cheek.

"You could buy a green ball gown," he said, his voice low. "You'd look marvelous in it. It would match your eyes."

James blushed to the roots of his hair and Miranda smirked at him from across the table.

Teddy passed his cake to Thomas and took another plate from Miranda. "What's this one? Oh! This is the lemon and poppy seed, yes, I see what you meant, James." Teddy didn't seem to mind at all that his story kept getting derailed. He was genuinely enjoying eating cake. "I've never been a terribly brave man, but I'm not a coward either, and I asked her to dance. Amazingly, she said yes."

Miranda smiled around her fork. "Mmm," she hummed, holding her hand to her mouth. "How could I turn him down? He had such kind eyes."

Teddy beamed at her.

James wasn't a fan of the chocolate raspberry, but he agreed with Teddy about the honey and lavender. "Miranda, I have to ask…"

"Yes, dear?"

"Well, first the Four Seasons, and now the cake from Sylvia Weinstock…" he wasn't sure how to frame the rest of his question.

"Oh Sylvia's a dear, isn't she? She did my first wedding, you know. We've stayed in touch ever since."

James let out a small snort of disbelief. "Did you give her three weeks' notice that time as well, or...?"

He received a sharp and discreet elbow to his side and then Thomas passed him another plate.

"Mmm, so good," he mumbled around a bite of cake, pretending none of it had happened. Thomas snorted.

It was too much, and they were all stuffed by the time they were through.

"I don't know how I'll fit into my dress," Miranda said, sitting back with a sigh. James refrained from asking whether Vera Wang was personally sewing her wedding gown. He was too afraid of the answer.

Thomas was counting tally marks on a napkin. "So that's three votes for the lemon poppy, three for the coffee rum, and three for the honey lavender. Sorry Teddy," Thomas said at the man's sigh. "You were the only fan of the chocolate."

"I think it's only fair Teddy get to break the tie," Miranda said, but Teddy demurred, so Miranda settled on the honey lavender and she and Teddy went to make the last arrangements in the back office.

"Oh, before we go, would the two of you go in for tuxedo fittings with Teddy on Monday, please?"

Thomas pulled his phone out to check his appointments that day, and James frowned. "I was just going to wear a suit, I don't-"

Miranda cut him off. "Nonsense! You'll be one of the groomsmen of course."

James, struck dumb, turned to Teddy in surprise.

"Oh, would you? My brother will be standing up with me, but other than him, I haven't got anyone else. I have a few good friends, but none I felt like asking."

That didn't answer James's concerns in the least, but once again, Miranda had a way of making him feel important - like his developing relationship with Thomas was more than a run of the mill affair - something entirely different.

"I'd be honored," he said.

"How does she do it?" he asked Thomas later, as they left, heading towards the subway station. His hands were freezing. He rubbed them together, breathing into them.

"Do what?" Thomas took one of James's hands and pulled it into his pocket.

His heart skipped a beat, and James tightened his grip on Thomas's hand, smiling. "The venue, the cake, whatever famous designer I imagine is doing the dress."

"Not to mention one of the most popular up-and-coming florists in New York City."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, that too."

Thomas sighed. "These things just seem to happen for Miranda. Life has a tendency to go her way. At least when it doesn't come to love." Thomas glanced back towards the bakery. "Though maybe that's changing now as well. She deserves it."

James didn't want to pry, though he'd already understood Miranda's other marriages hadn't ended well.

"Ever seen Star Wars?" Thomas asked him.

James gave him a _look_.

"Alright, I'm sorry I asked!" He laughed. "My point is, Miranda is like a Jedi. There's something about her - people want to do nice things for her. So she asks for something, and then people just… fall in line. Over time, I've stopped questioning it." He paused and then added softly, "You will too."

The implication that James would be around long enough to get used to it was not lost on him. He squeezed Thomas's hand again and they turned towards the subway station stairs.

"He's a good sort, Teddy," he said as they reached the bottom.

"Hmm. He really is."

"Thomas?" James asked, pushing through the turnstile.

"Hmm?"

"Is... is Teddy English?"

Thomas glanced over at James with a frown. "Of course he is, isn't he?"

James barely remember what Teddy looked like, much less what he sounded like. Thomas stopped, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Fuck. I have no idea," he said with wide eyes.

Their incredulous laughter accompanied them onto the train.


	5. Chapter 5

What had Thomas's life been like before James had come into it? He had filled every corner of his world so completely, Thomas couldn't even remember. James now occupied such a central part in Thomas's everyday life, it almost physically hurt him when he wasn't around.

And the sex… Jesus Christ, the sex.

Thomas pulled almost all the way out before thrusting again. James's arms were clasped behind his back and Thomas's grip on them tightened when James cried out, his back muscles bunching beautifully with pleasure. James shivered with need, his own fingers digging into his forearms - he was close. That grip was going to leave some beautiful imprints against his skin. Thomas sped up, imagining them, the beginnings of his own orgasm tingling at the base of his spine. He was so close. Fuck. He was going to come.

"James," he gasped out, pulling him more tightly with each thrust. One hand gripped James's hip, his nails leaving his own crescent marks there. James keened in response, and that was it. Thomas came with a groan, folding over James and letting go of his arms, resting his head against the back of James's neck.

He blinked, breathing heavily, and reached around James to grasp his leaking cock, James's shivers now out of control.

"Shhh," he murmured into his neck, "I've got you. I've got you." He stroked him quickly, one hand around his cock, the other tight around his waist, holding him in place. "Come on, James," he said softly, and then bit down on the back of his neck.

With a loud shout, James came, his shuddering contained in Thomas's arms until he was spent and finally became still. Only then did Thomas slowly ease out of him, shaking slightly himself, to collapse on the bed, pulling James with him, away from the mess. He pulled the condom off and tossed it into the trash. They'd both taken to keeping a rubbish bin next to their beds now. It was a strange thing to make Thomas smile, but it did.

The silence settled around them as they came down, reveling in the post coital haze.

"I miss Tesco's."

Thomas blinked his eyes open and rolled his head sideways, still panting, the sweat slowly beginning to cool on his chest. "Sorry." He laughed in disbelief. "We just had some of the most mind-blowing sex I've ever had, and your first thought is, 'I miss Tesco's?'"

James had the good grace to blush. "Most mind-blowing, was it?"

Thomas grinned, and James rolled towards him, kissing him. Thomas's eyes fell shut, and he hummed in pleasure. He was boneless, sinking into the mattress. What little strength he had, he used to trail his fingers down James's back to that fantastic ass of his, pressing against his hole. He was so loose and slick. James hissed against his mouth and groaned, dropping his forehead to Thomas's shoulder.

"It suddenly occurred to me, sorry," he mumbled, rubbing against Thomas like a cat when Thomas slipped one finger inside of him, gently teasing. James enjoyed being fucked even after he'd come, and he loved being fingered most of all.

"James. You just came so hard you screamed, and now I have a finger inside your arse and you're still thinking about Tesco's. Should I be concerned?" he teased.

James laughed, the huff of his breath warm against Thomas's shoulder. He practically melted against him, relaxed and sated.

"Can't help it." He buried his nose into Thomas's neck. "I wanted Jammie Dodgers the other day and I couldn't find them anywhere."

"Christ, James," Thomas said, laughing. "I'll bake you some if you want them that badly."

"Won't be the same."

Thomas bit back a grin, but said nothing more on the matter, settling down and enjoying the feeling of James pressed against him. His eyes trailed over his shoulder. Those delicious freckles were everywhere. He'd never manage to kiss each of them separately if he tried. He had been right about the fingerprints on his arms; the sight of them made something fierce and possessive rise up in Thomas. He'd have to check later to see if his bite mark was visible on the back of James's neck.

He took in the soft, milky skin of James's side, a blank canvas waiting for something more permanent than the beautiful bruises left there by his lips and teeth.

"James," he murmured.

"Hm?"

He gave his fingers one last twist inside of James and then pulled his hand away. James groaned at the loss.

"You mentioned once you'd considered getting a tattoo of your grandmother's favorite flowers," he said. "I was just wondering where you would do it…"

James rolled a little off of him to display his left side.

"I always thought along here might look good." He lifted his arm for Thomas to trail fingers down his side. James shivered.

Thomas pictured it - the splash of color, the defined lines, would beautifully contrast James's skin. His fingers itched for a tattoo needle. He hadn't wanted to ink anyone this badly since he'd first visited that tattoo parlor with his friends in grad school.

"Which flowers?"

"Well..." James settled on his side, letting Thomas continue to run his fingers along his torso. "I'd considered some combination of daffodils, primroses, and bluebells. My grandfather grew all of those in the garden for her. The daffodils only bloomed for about a month in winter, and the bluebells for a month in spring, but the primroses lasted all summer… Sometimes it felt like she spent the rest of the year waiting for them to flower again."

"I know what daffodils look like, but I can't remember primroses and bluebells," Thomas mused, disappointed he couldn't picture it perfectly.

"Here." James pulled away from him, and Thomas barely had a moment to protest, before James was back in his arms, thumbing his phone open.

"These are primroses," he said,holding his phone out, "and these…" Some more quick typing. "These are bluebells."

Thomas spread his fingers, spanning James's side, and hummed. "Those would look beautiful here." He leaned down and kissed James on the shoulder.

"Yeah?"

Thomas nodded. "I - James, would you let me…" He shouldn't be this nervous asking, but they were just getting started and asking James to let him do something so permanent... What if they didn't work out? What if it ended badly? At this point, Thomas was terrified of living his life without James in it, but what if the worst happened, and then James had Thomas's work permanently etched into his skin? He couldn't do that to him, couldn't put so much on the-

"Would you?" James asked, snapping Thomas out of his spiral. James was biting his lip, and those green eyes - fuck. Those green eyes were nervous, pleading. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he asked, "Would you do it for me? I don't think I would trust anyone else with it."

Too overwhelmed to speak, Thomas kissed along the skin James wanted to tattoo instead. Wanted him to tattoo. He didn't stop there. He kept on, kissing and licking until he'd reached James's hip, and he sucked a mark there, biting down for good measure. James groaned, his cock twitching. The urge to show him again was overpowering - to show how much he was coming to love him.

He took James into his mouth, bringing him off for a second time that night, and then fucked him slow and steady and with every ounce of love he felt until they were both sated and exhausted. They fell asleep entwined in each other's arms, Thomas's hand spread possessively over James's side.

* * *

Monday dawned cold and dreary. One would hardly believe it was already May, but James was secretly glad it was still cold enough to warrant long sleeves and scarves, because Thomas had left marks all over him last night.

The heat rose to his cheeks. Thomas had been practically worshipful in his attentions, bringing James more pleasure than he'd ever experienced with another lover before.

He glanced at him now, greeting Teddy with an enthusiastic handshake and a clap on his back, forcing himself back into the present and leaning in to offer his hand as well.

"Alright, Teddy?"

"Yeah, thanks for coming, both of you. Like I said, my brother won't make it into the city until the week of the wedding, so this means a lot."

It maddened James every time Teddy said something like that, and didn't seem to care at all how utterly sad it was. And because Teddy genuinely didn't seem to feel sorry for himself, James couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for him either. Teddy was a man just bordering on the edge of pitiful, but never crossing that line, with enough good fortune to make one wonder whether he was secretly the luckiest of them all.

"Shall we?" Teddy gestured to the tailor shop with a smile.

They spent a perfectly pleasant hour getting fitted for suits, a suit which, to James's great consternation, he would be keeping.

"No, I couldn't possibly-"

"Nonsense," Teddy told him, trying on a cravat, "Miranda and I insist!" He winked at him and gave his full attention once again to the mirror, lifting his chin to get a better view.

"Here, Teddy, let me help." Thomas set about tying Teddy's bow-tie properly, while James frowned at the jacket he was holding.

"So, any wedding jitters?" Thomas asked.

Teddy smiled. "None whatsoever. Never been more sure of anything in my life, to be honest. My parents don't approve, they think it's too fast, and that Miranda's after the family fortune."

James's hackles rose. He'd barely known Miranda for more than a couple of weeks, but he was surprised at how fiercely protective of her he already felt.

Thomas was clenching his jaw, his hands still fussing at Teddy's bow-tie.

Teddy carried on as though the aura in the room hadn't turned suddenly and inexplicably murderous. "I told them they were ridiculous. Miranda has a nice fortune of her own, and there's no requisite time frame to love."

James glanced at Thomas and found sky-blue eyes watching him as intently. His stomach dropped away when Thomas murmured, "No, of course you're right. Love… just happens. Sometimes as quick as lightning."

James swallowed.

"Anyway, I let them know in no uncertain terms that if they disapproved, they were more than welcome to skip the wedding."

James and Thomas turned to Teddy with mirrored wide-eyed expressions.

"Really?" Thomas sounded delighted. "That's - well. You're..." Thomas shook his head. "Cheers, Teddy."

"They're really not coming?" James asked with a frown.

Teddy shrugged. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

Later, after they'd bid Teddy goodbye and promised to meet him for drinks the night before the wedding, Thomas took James's arm as they walked back towards SoHo.

"I think Miranda's finally done it this time. He's wonderful."

James had to agree. He pulled Thomas's arm tighter when a sudden harsh wind whipped passed them, stinging his face.

"Let's go faster, it's fucking freezing."

"Hmmm," Thomas murmured, nosing his ice-cold nose at James's ear.

"Ahh! You shit!"

The sound of Thomas's laughter filled him with a different sort of warmth. "If we both didn't have a thousand things to do, I'd drag you up to my flat and…" he fell silent, cheeks turning red.

"No, please, by all means finish that thought," Thomas pressed, voice low.

James leaned in and whispered exactly what he'd like to do to Thomas in his ear. When he pulled away, Thomas's cheeks red with more than the cold. He swallowed and then closed his eyes with a groan.

"Tonight," he managed to get out. "Fucking appointments."

James stopped short, something occurring to him.

"Fuck," he stated.

"What?"

James laughed, eyes dancing in wonder. "I still have no idea where Teddy's from. Did you pay attention to his accent this time?"

Thomas turned his head back the direction they'd come, eyes wide. "Incredible. You know, if I didn't think it was utterly impossible, I'd say that man would make a perfect candidate for MI6."

Their laughter trailed away into contemplative and uncomfortable silence.

James frowned. Thomas shifted on his feet. Then both at once shook their heads.

"Nah."

* * *

Aside from the vaguely hilarious question of Teddy's origins, with a week left to Miranda's wedding, everything else was on falling into place, including James and Thomas and a possibly beautiful future.

No one expects love.

But then, no one expects disaster either.

Spring was peeking through the chill night in the budding leaves on the trees and the small shoots of green coming up between the cracks in the pavement. Dinner had been lovely, and James was warm and loose with wine and Thomas's hand in his.

"My place or yours?" Thomas murmured against his cheek, his smile pressing into James's skin.

He turned his head, kissing him lightly. "Yours. It's closer."

"No it isn't. Your flat is literally across the street."

"Mmmhm. Which means we'd have to cross the street to get there."

Thomas's laugh cut short. James kept on walking long enough after Thomas froze unexpectedly in place, that his hand was pulled from his warm fingers.

"What-?"

But Thomas was looking past him at the storefront of Sullivan St. Tattoos, his face pale in the light of the streetlamps.

A small woman stood in front of the shop. She carried her shoulders in a way that made her seem even smaller, and her eyes, when they fell on Thomas, were both dim and pleading. There was something distinctly crumpled about her, an odd thing, since every item of clothing she wore was in pristine condition, and she was wearing more money in jewelry than James had made on his last three events.

Thomas had been all laughter and comfort a moment ago. There was not a drop of either left in him now.

"Why are you here?" His voice was cold and stiff. He hadn't known Thomas could sound like that.

"Thomas, I-"

"What are you doing here, Mother?"

He was trapped between them, still a step closer to home than Thomas was, and he had to swing his head back and forth between the small, folded woman and her son.

This was Thomas's mother.

She made no move to embrace him, tired and unsurprised at his tone. She made no sign she even wanted to.

"Your father has fallen ill. I thought it would be best if I came in person to retrieve you."

Something passed behind Thomas's eyes, something James couldn't quite decipher. Then his expression turned steely. "I'm sorry you made such a long trip for nothing. I'll call you a cab so you can go back to your hotel."

James frowned. "Thomas, what-"

Thomas shook his head. His mother glanced between the two of them, realization coloring her otherwise pale cheeks.

"Thomas, is this…" she frowned and took half a step forward. "Is he-"

Her own movement finally spurred Thomas to action. He stepped forward, blocking James from her view. "You lost any right to details about my personal life a long time ago." His hand took James's in a vice like grip, his knuckles white. James squeezed in return.

"I'll call that cab." Thomas pulled James past her and pulled out his keys.

"He's dying, Thomas."

The key slipped on the lock, but Thomas simply squared his shoulders and tried again, this time managing to get the door open.

James threw the woman (Thomas's mother) an apologetic look as Thomas pulled him inside and shut the door behind him.

He immediately let go of James's hand and pulled out his phone.

"Yes, hello. I need a cab at 83 Sullivan St. please. Yes. Yes alright, thank you." Thomas set his phone on the sidebar and leaned his forehead against the wall.

"Thomas?"

Thomas didn't respond, just banged his forehead lightly against the wall.

"Thomas. That's your mother outside. Aren't you even going to-"

"No."

James frowned. "What do you mean, 'no'? The woman flew seven hours to-"

Thomas's laugh sounded like it had been ripped from his throat against his will. It was cruel and pained and dark, and James was sure he hadn't meant to let it slip.

"I'm sure she was perfectly comfortable in first class, don't worry. And she'll be just as comfortable flying back."

This felt wrong. "At least invite her in, offer her some tea-"

"James, this isn't up for discussion. I know you think it is. I know you think you're being reasonable. But right now I-" Thomas finally pulled away from the wall. His forehead had a small red mark on it. James fixated on it. It was nothing; any extremely pale man knew the slightest pressure against skin could leave a red mark that wouldn't fade for minutes at a time. But he was entirely distracted by that mark.

Thomas laid his forehead on James's shoulder, the redness now pressed into his neck. "I just need you to not say anything about this, or ask any questions. I just need you."

It had been such a lovely evening. Spring was coming. It was all around them, in the cloudless sky and the crowds out for a night on the town. And in the dark of Sullivan St. Tattoos, Thomas was cracking in James's arms.

He took him to bed, and James held Thomas close. He wasn't sure which of them fell asleep first, but they didn't speak in the dark, listening to each other's breathing for a long while.

James wondered how long Thomas's mother waited out in the cold for the cab. He wondered if he could fix this. He didn't even know what this was.

* * *

"Captain, you okay?" Max leaned against the doorway to the backroom, arms folded over her chest.

James startled. He'd been staring into space and he clenched his fist around the stems he'd been holding, cursing under his breath when several rose thorns stuck into his palm.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Why?"

Max shrugged. "No reason. You've been putting together the same arrangement for the last half hour, by the way. If you keep this up, you won't have the Baird-McPhearson wedding ready until next month. They won't be happy." Max pushed off from the doorframe and pulled out a chair next to him, reaching for a basket and beginning to strip the leaves from some hydrangeas.

"Wanna talk about it?"

James pulled his forefinger from his mouth, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. He stared at his palm, running his thumb over the damaged skin, not sure what to say. "Are you close with your parents, Max? And if I'm overstepping, feel free to tell me to fuck right off."

Max laughed, gingerly sifting through the roses. "I'm close with my dad. My mom not so much. She left us a little while after we moved here from Haiti. She tries to keep in touch with me, meet up with me, but…" Max shrugged. "I don't think she gets to miss all the hard stuff and then show up once the job's done and get credit, you know?"

He did. Conceptually he did. But it was still hard for him to understand. "I'd give anything to have my parents back," he said. "Over time, it's got easier, but when they died, they took a whole lifetime with them, one I'll never get to know."

Max nodded. "I'm sorry. That… That really sucks. But experiences aren't universal like that. I'm not saying if my mom died I wouldn't be sad. I would, and I'd feel like we missed out too. But I'd feel like we missed out because she decided it would be that way. Not because of anything I'd done."

He wasn't sure he could agree. His gran had always said he was stubborn as a mule, though. She was probably right. Max was probably right, too.

The shop bell rang. "Thank you, Max. I think I've got this."

Max brushed her palms on her jeans and left him with the roses.

* * *

The lobby at the Ritz-Carlton was lavish but tasteful, with wooden paneling, golden rugs, and antique armchairs in pale greens and blues, all set aglow in soft lighting. James had a wedding planned here in September. He couldn't imagine what the bride and groom had paid for the hall.

He rose from his seat when Mrs. Hamilton approached. She nodded at the gesture, and he sat once again, Mrs. Hamilton settling herself primly across from him, her ankles crossed to the side of her chair.

"Mrs. Hamilton, thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Yes, of course." Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her gold rings and pearl necklace glinted in the lamplight. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name…?"

"James, ma'am. James Flint."

"Flint?" She blinked, furrowing her brow. "Flint. Related to the West Brompton Flints?"

James flushed. He hoped she couldn't see it in the soft light. "No, ma'am. I'm not English. I'm from Aberdeen."

Surprised colored her cheeks. "You're from Scotland."

"Yes. I took my mother's name. Her parents raised me. My father was McGraw."

"Your father." She narrowed her eyes. "What happened to him?"

There was judgment in the question, and assumptions he didn't care for. His fingers twitched and he fidgeted to keep from clenching his hands. "He died, along with my mother. They were in an accident when I was a boy."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear." She didn't quite sound sorry. The words were empty, uttered by rote. "And you're a florist."

It was utterly dismissive. This might have been a bad idea, but he couldn't back out now. "Yes ma'am. I own three shops."

The silence stretched out between them, before Mrs. Hamilton's shoulders dropped a little and she settled in her chair. "You wanted to talk to me about my son."

James breathed a small sigh of relief, but still wasn't sure how to begin. He hadn't really put together a plan of attack.

"I was sorry to hear about your husband."

"Were you?"

"Yes." He leaned forward in his chair. "Mrs. Hamilton, I don't want Thomas to regret not going to see his father."

Thomas's mother glanced sideways at the marble table, turning one of her rings absentmindedly on her finger.

"Do you think he'd regret it?" she asked him.

"I know I would."

"What is it you think you could do here?" Her smile was brittle.

James was so far out of his depth. It was wrong, his being here. A part of him knew he shouldn't be. But another part of him believed he was doing what was best, what Thomas couldn't do, for whatever reason. James wasn't sure if Thomas was afraid, or too stubborn, or too lost to do it, but Thomas didn't know what losing a parent felt like. James did.

He spread his hands. "Talk to him? Try to convince him? I didn't want you going back to England without some sort of hope. I can't promise anything, but I'm willing to try."

Mrs. Hamilton's smile turned even colder and more forced. James was a child attempting to have a conversation with an impatient and angry adult, and she was barely humoring him.

"You're willing to try. Well, then." She nodded once and stood, looking down at him.

"Mr. Flint." James winced. "I'll be leaving tonight. You think you can talk to Thomas, convince him to speak to me or to his father. You don't know him." She sighed, twisting her ring once again.

"Thomas was always a… difficult boy. It wasn't his fault, not really. He was troubled. He often did things like this, simply to anger his father, to make a scene. He gallivanted around town with every boy who'd go along with it. And he hasn't changed."

The look she gave James was pitying, and it curdled his stomach.

"He never cared enough about the family name, never cared about his father. There's a certain selfishness in that, I think. And I know children are selfish, and parents suffer for it. But after everything we've done for him, after he had some time to grow up, I would have thought eventually…" She trailed off. "Well. Such a shame now his name is going to die with his father." She glanced at James, her mouth pursed, before looking away in discomfort.

James's heart thudded in his chest. It was like she'd slapped him, and his ear rang with the emotional whiplash. This was how she saw Thomas. And this was how she saw him. As an obstacle to carrying on Thomas's name. Nothing more than a pawn in an international game of chess with his father.

Mrs. Hamilton hesitated as she turned to leave. Her cheeks were tinged pink, and for a moment James thought she might apologize for the whole thing, but she left without a goodbye, and he was forced to consider that he had just made a very big mistake.

* * *

He could barely bring himself to eat, later that evening, Greek food set out in styrofoam containers at Thomas's kitchen table, a bottle of wine open between them.

Thomas had been uncharacteristically silent since last night, his smiles few and far between, dim representations of his usual joy. He swirled his riesling in his wine glass now, staring into it absentmindedly, while James tried to finish his spanakopita.

"Do you want the last of this?" he asked, holding out the container. Thomas shook his head.

James's guilt made the silence unbearable.

He felt like he'd cheated on Thomas. Perhaps the comparison was a bit extreme - he'd never cheated on a partner, couldn't even imagine it. But something in the furtive secrecy of what he'd done made his stomach churn.

On the one hand, he owed it to Thomas to tell him he'd met with his mother. On the other hand, it had been a mistake, James was certain of that now. He'd replayed his conversation with Mrs. Hamilton several times over the last few hours, her chilly demeanor, her dismissiveness, and how little she knew or understood her own son.

He couldn't bring himself to tell Thomas he'd gone behind his back when Thomas had explicitly asked him to leave it alone. Maybe if James ignored it, it would all go away.

But how could he build a relationship like that?

When Thomas's phone rang, James froze. Something oddly prescient rose up inside of him. The choice had been taken out of his hands, even before Thomas checked the screen and his lips pressed together, his eyes turned to steel, and his features to stone.

Maybe Thomas wouldn't answer.

"Mother."

James couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground, become one with the floorboards, and melt away. He slumped lower in his chair as though that would make his presence in Thomas's flat any less noticeable.

There was a last moment before Thomas knew what James had done, a last moment James clung to, when Thomas still held him in any sort of regard.

Then Thomas's eyes widened and cut to James and it was gone. Thomas stood quickly and backed away from the table.

"Don't you think you've done enough?" His voice shook with rage or hurt, or James didn't know what. He wasn't sure if Thomas was speaking to him or his mother. "You're poison. You and father. No, mother. Enough!" His voice broke on the yell. "Enough! We're done. I won't play this game with you anymore." Thomas turned away, his back to James. His shoulders slumped forward, and for a moment, his carriage so greatly resembled that of his mother James could hardly breathe.

"I don't want to hear from you again. No matter the reason."

The phone clattered to the floor after a moment, and James remained frozen in his chair. He'd played right into this - into Mrs. Hamilton being able to leave one final, and painfully cruel gift before she left. He'd been so fucking stupid.

The seconds ticked by until he had to do something, had to speak. It was too unbearable not to. The scrape of his chair echoed through the living room as he pushed it back and stood.

"Thomas-"

"Don't." Thomas turned around slowly, his fingers tugging at his hair. He was white with rage. The first time they'd met, Thomas had been all fury, but then it had been hot, and alive, nothing like this cold and metallic anger.

"You had no right."

"Thomas-"

"You had no fucking right, James! How dare you?"

James didn't know what to say. How could he even begin to get through to Thomas, or explain what he'd been trying to do. Did his intentions even matter on this road to hell? "He's dying, Thomas. I thought, stupidly perhaps, that you might want to put everything behind you. I mean, do you really want to regret this for the rest of your life?"

It was absolutely the wrong thing to say, and now Thomas was looking at him like he'd never seen him before.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so low James almost missed the small tremor hidden behind what appeared to be a monumental amount of self-control.

"Not all of us grew up with sunflowers in the garden, gingersnaps on the kitchen table and Sunday kite flying, James." Thomas spat his name out like an insult and James winced. He had told Thomas each of those things with warmth in the memory of them, and he'd never imagined they would be thrown back at him as weapons.

"Not all of us grew up with people who loved us and supported us, no matter how badly we fucked up, or who we fucking chose to love."

Thomas's voice was rising now, the tremor more pronounced.

"In my house, you did as my father said, when he said it, or you sat in the cupboard for three hours facing the wall. You spoke to him respectfully or you didn't eat dinner. You didn't argue, didn't step out of line, God, you didn't live! And you absolutely fucking didn't love."

Thomas ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Do you understand? You don't, do you?" Thomas shook his head, staring at him in bewilderment. "This is a joke to you, it must be."

James's chest was constricting so tightly he found it difficult to breathe. The fear and panic set in - for him, for a relationship just finding its sea-legs, for Thomas.

"Thomas, I don't give a fuck about him, he's obviously a terrible human being, but you-"

"Me?" Thomas laughed. "When my father found out I was gay he didn't even blink. It didn't even matter because in the grand scheme of things, I would buckle up and marry well and think of England when I fucked my wife, because that was the plan. I almost would have welcomed anger, or revulsion. Anything other than the quiet and suffocating indifference that trampled who I was. Because I had no identity to Alfred Hamilton. I was just the soulless shell that carried his good name."

And it was true. Everything Thomas's mother had said to him earlier at the hotel confirmed it all to be true.

Thomas sank into his chair

"God, you're naïve. I loved that about you initially, but right now-"

If Thomas had slapped him, it would have hurt less.

Thomas's eyes were tired, dim. Another similarity between him and his mother, and James had made him look that way. It chilled him.

"You need to leave."

"Thomas, no, Thomas-"

"Get out. Please James, just- get out."

The pain in Thomas's voice brooked no argument, and James backed away slowly, stumbling when he bumped into the armchair by the door before turning and fleeing.


	6. Chapter 6

It was still dark outside when his phone rang. Hardly having slept at all, for one wild moment, James was certain it was Thomas, calling to tell him he was forgiven, that he understood, that he knew James hadn't meant any harm.

The digital numbers on his alarm clock glowed red in the darkness. 5:09. He almost fell out of bed scrambling for his phone, but it was Gates's name that showed up on the screen, not Thomas's. He sank back down onto the mattress at the deep misery that settled in his chest.

He rubbed at his eyes. "Hello?"

"We did it! Fucking hell, James, we fucking did it! Do you hear me? The English Redwood with arms actually came through. I mean, I'm never going to hear the end of it, but I'll take dealing with Billy's insufferable know-it-all attitude if it means we get to do the flowers for the Prince of Wales's fucking birthday even once, God bless his soul and all that."

James frowned into the dark. "What did we do?"

"What do you mean, 'what did we do'? Did you forget the approved vendors list, you wanker?"

"I- oh. Er-"

Gates finally cottoned on that something wasn't right.

"What time is it there?" There was a pause. "Jesus Christ. It's 5 in the morning. Why the fuck didn't you tell me to piss off?"

James shook his head, even though Gates couldn't see him.

"James? Is everything all right over there?"

"Yeah, Hal, I-" Fuck. He'd what? Destroyed his one chance at happiness? Fucked everything up? Hurt someone who'd been hurt too many times to count - who'd deserved so much better from him? "I messed everything up, Hal."

"With the shop? I've seen the numbers, James. The shop's thriving, Max-"

"Not the shop. Thomas."

"Thomas? Who's-" A pause. "Oh."

"Yeah."

Gates was silent. He'd be worried they'd been disconnected, except the noise and bustle of the Chelsea shop was a painful sliver of home in the background.

"James, ah. I'm sorry, mate. I don't know what to say."

"Yeah. Neither do I to be honest."

"When did this happen?"

"Last night."

"Fuck."

James sighed and fell back on his bed, empty and cold with the prospect that Thomas might never lie in it with him again.

"I can't talk about it right now. Listen, that's great news about Buckingham. Give Billy a pay rise or something."

"Fuck, no."

And despite everything, Gates could still make him laugh when the world was falling to shit. He snorted. His grin felt strange on his face, but it was also a comfort.

"Well. Do something. He did good, and you know it."

"Yeah, well. Any more good deeds from him and I'll most likely end up going into cardiac arrest. I think we've had enough for a season."

There was a long pause and the temporary lightness started to trickle away.

Gates sighed. "Get some rest, you tosser."

"Yeah."

They hung up.

* * *

The knock at his door was unfamiliar, and aside from Thomas, no one came to his flat.

"Yeah?"

"Open the door, James."

Oh. Miranda. He hadn't thought it possible to feel worse, but he had forgotten about Miranda, and how his cock-up was bound to impact her wedding. He sighed and trudged to the door.

"Hi."

She tilted her head and frowned at him, sunglasses perched on the top of her head, designer bag tucked beneath her arm. Not a hair out of place. James was suddenly very much aware of how his hair was sticking up in every direction, and the fact that he hadn't changed his clothes since last night.

"You spoke to Thomas." He couldn't even look her in the eyes, he was such a failure. The tightness in his chest expanded and he clenched his jaw. He would remain composed. He would not fall apart in front of Thomas's best friend.

"I suppose you came to tell me not to show up to the wedding, which makes sense. Just don't cancel the flowers? Max and Howell have really been working hard on those arrangements, and I'm not sure you'd find another florist in the city to pull it together in three days, though it's you, so honestly, who knows what you'd-"

"You're an idiot."

James finally met her eyes, his own wide. "Er, about which part exactly?"

"All of it, you sweet, stupid man."

"You didn't come to tell me off and uninvite me from your wedding?"

"Oh, I absolutely came to tell you off, though perhaps you'd be so kind as to invite me in and make us both some tea?"

Embarrassed, James took a step back from his door, opening it wider to let Miranda inside. She looked around his living room with interest.

"Your flat is lovely. You have so much color here." She walked to the balcony doors as she shrugged out of her jacket, draping it on the sofa, and James set the water to boil.

For a couple of minutes, the only sound was the rumble of the electric kettle, the clink of ceramic mugs, and James opening and closing cupboards.

He remembered Miranda's penchant for teacups too late. Well. Mugs would have to do. It wasn't as though he could ruin things any more than he already had.

He cleared his throat. "Tea's ready."

From next to the balcony, Miranda sighed. "Why would you do that?"

James froze halfway into his seat and then settled the rest of the way. "I thought he would regret it."

She whipped her head around, eyes narrowed, and James held up his hands in defense. "I've come to understand I was very wrong."

Her expression settled and she pushed away from the wall, coming to sit beside him at the kitchen table.

She took a sip and made a face. "This tea is terrible."

"It's the American stuff. I ran out of my PG Tips stash."

"I think you can buy it here. If not, I'll bring some back the next time I visit."

At that, James set his mug back on the table. "Bring some back? Why would you-"

Pity shone in Miranda's eyes. "You did a stupid thing, James. But you didn't mean any harm. And even if Thomas can't see that, and you don't figure this all out," James's heart dropped to the floor, "you're still my friend. I don't make friends easily. I'm not eager to toss the ones I have aside."

Gratitude overwhelmed him, but with it, so did his fear that what he'd broken was unfixable. "What if he never forgives me?" He wrapped his hands tightly around his mug, the heat helping him focus. It kept him from losing his composure.

"I don't know," Miranda admitted. James's shoulders slumped. "But I do know Thomas is kind. And forgiving."

James raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Even if he refuses to extend that forgiveness to his parents. Yes."

He stared into the murky depths of his tea. "I still don't completely…" He sighed. "I wish things could be different for him."

"Oh, James." Miranda was sympathetic, but there was something approaching exasperation in her expression as well. "We all do. So does Thomas. But not everyone deserves to be forgiven. And sometimes parents least of all."

She spread her delicate hands across the table. "Thomas was hurt by the very people who should have supported him and loved him. And while some might consider it a strength to forgive despite those things - some might even draw strength from forgiveness in the face of horror - others do not.

"It took Thomas a long time to be able to stand up and say, 'Enough.' He spent years hoping for something he'd never receive - recognition, unconditional love, support. It isn't a flaw to refuse to forgive, at this point. It isn't a mistake. It's bravery. He worked for years to accept himself and find the strength to admit he didn't deserve what his father did to him."

"Didn't deserve-? Of course he didn't deserve it! No one deserves to be treated that way."

Miranda folded her lips between her teeth and shook her head. "It would seem obvious, but for a long time, it wasn't to Thomas."

James settled back in is chair. The man who exuded confidence, kindness, and respect, had believed he'd deserved to be shamed, and... abused.

The word came to him suddenly - abuse. That was what Alfred had done to him. James wasn't sure why he hadn't thought it so plainly before.

"Forgiveness won't heal him, James. This is how he heals."

James nodded.

"You'll be at the wedding on Friday?"

"Of course, if you still want me there."

Miranda smiled. "Good. Now. Tell me what's been going on with your loose canon florist."

* * *

Thomas had canceled on drinks with Teddy, begging off to throw the bride a hen night. On the one hand, James was relieved. He wasn't quite ready to face Thomas again so soon and see the distrust and hurt in his eyes.

On the other hand, he really wasn't in the mood to go drinking at all. And Thomas canceling on Teddy meant James couldn't.

"Don't you have anyone else to spend tonight with?" James had asked him when he'd shown up at his door at 8pm, unremarkable smile firmly in place.

"No. My family and friends don't get in until tomorrow morning, as it turns out. It's just you and me!"

"Teddy. Don't you think that's-" he'd been about to say, 'sad," but couldn't bring himself to burst the odd bubble of oblivion that was Teddy's entire existence. "-unusual?"

"No more unusual than Thomas being Miranda's only friend drinking with her tonight."

James couldn't argue with that, so they ended up at a bar in the East Village.

Please Don't Tell was an actual speakeasy with a secret entrance. That was enough to distract James until well after they'd taken their seats at the bar. They were a couple of shots into the evening when he got stuck on a loop of dread at having to face Thomas the next day. There was no more running.

"So. Teddy. Are you ready for tomorrow?"

Teddy threw back another shot like it was water. "Never been more ready for anything in my life."

"Cheers," James murmured, and followed suit. "Have your parents made their peace with it?" Anxiety lanced through him. That was the wrong question. Parents and children. Thomas. Damn.

The bartender refilled their glasses.

Teddy shrugged. "Don't know. I suppose we'll see tomorrow. I dwell in possibility, a fairer house than prose."

"That one's easy. Emily Dickinson. Do you all just quote poetry all the time?"

Teddy laughed.

"I'm going to have to start reading more of it." His limbs were loose, and the alcohol was turning all of his tension from the last week into a hazy cloud around his head.

Teddy's eyes sparkled as they downed their shots. He gestured to the bartender to leave them the bottle. "Reading it for Thomas? Can't be that bad if you're still thinking about the future."

"Miranda told you?"

"Hmm. Sorry about the fight." He refilled James's glass.

James groaned. "I don't even know how I'm going to face him tomorrow, Teddy."

"You will, because you have to if you're going to fix it. It wouldn't be out of line for me to say you love him, would it?"

James, utterly miserable, glared into his whiskey. "No."

"Right. Well, then you figure out what you need to do to prove to him you know you made a mistake, that you support him, and that you're on his side. You make sure he knows your devotion doesn't only run skin deep."

James had just downed his shot and choked on the burn as the most ridiculous idea occurred to him. "What was that?"

"Show him that you support him, that-"

"No. The other thing. Fuck, that's it."

He pulled his phone out and shot off a quick text to Miranda.

Teddy poured him another whiskey. How many was it now? He'd lost count. This might his fifth. Teddy had drunk at least as many as he had, yet the man seemed completely in control and nowhere near approaching as tipsy as James already was. "You're an odd bird, Teddy. I wonder about you."

"Oh?"

His phone chimed and he pulled it out, checking the reply from Miranda.

I'm fine with it if Teddy is, and I emailed you the file. Good luck, love.

James threw his shot back and slammed the glass onto the bar with a clang, alcohol providing him with just the right amount of both stupidity and liquid courage.

"Teddy. It's time for the ultimate drunk bachelor experience. How do you feel about getting a tattoo?"

* * *

His hangover had mostly disappeared by the time he and Max arrived to set up the flowers the following day. His suit was packed neatly away in a garment bag to change into later, and he got to work organizing centerpieces in the reception hall, and decorating the aisle and altar. He was glad for the busy work. It kept his mind off of Thomas and what he planned on saying when he saw him. He could only pray it would work. It was all or nothing today.

Deeply focused on making sure the drape of the centerpiece off the corner of Miranda and Teddy's table was right, James didn't notice the man of the hour creeping up on him until he'd clasped him on the arm.

James jumped in surprise, then hissed in pain, wincing. He pulled away, the skin of his arm still raw.

"Oh goodness! Sorry!" Teddy grimaced in sympathy. "Completely forgot."

"It's all right. No worries." James rolled his shoulder and smiled.

"James, the room looks fantastic. The flowers are stunning."

"Yeah?" He gave the room a once-over. "I'm considering adding some photos from this one to the website. I might have gone a bit overboard."

"Well, it was for Miranda."

Yes. It was indeed for Miranda. James tapped a finger lightly on Teddy's shoulder. "So, how are you doing? Sore at all?"

"A bit, but Miranda loved it, so I'd say it was worth a bit of pain. Hope yours gets the same results." James's stomach roiled, but he pushed past it. "And would you believe it? My parents arrived. Guess they decided to get over themselves after all!"

Surprise gave way to pleasure and James shook Teddy's hand. "That's fantastic. I'm glad. For you and for Miranda."

"Yes, well. I suppose I'm glad as well." That was an understatement if his gentle flush was anything to go by.

"Hey, Captain!" They both turned to find Max gesturing across the room. "Shouldn't you be getting ready? It's all good, I've got this."

He smiled, gratitude and affection for her welling up inside of him. James wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve Max, but he hoped he kept on doing it.

"Shall we?" Teddy asked, nodding towards the side rooms designated for the wedding party.

James got ready in record time, his nerves fraying to the point of tatters. He couldn't push it off much longer.

Miranda invited him in when he knocked on her door, and hugged him, kissing him lightly on his cheek. She was resplendent in ivory lace, her hair in loose curls down her back.

"You…" James swallowed. "You look beautiful." In less than a month he'd somehow gained a family, and he was unsure how it had happened, but he blinked past unexpected tears and cleared the lump in his throat. If James could have fallen in love with a woman, it would have been with someone like Miranda.

"I brought you something. I didn't know what you were going to do with your hair, but… ah-" he pulled out a vial with an orchid, set on a pin.

"Oh, that's lovely. And it will go beautifully with the pearls." Miranda turned to face the mirror and caught his eyes in the reflection. "Would you-?"

"Of course." His fingers, so deft when handling dainty flowers and tiny details for centerpieces, fumbled with the delicate pin and her hair, but eventually he had the flower settled among the her curls.

"Thank you." Miranda turned and hugged him. "Thank you for everything."

James brought his own arms up awkwardly, returning the embrace. Miranda pulled back a bit, nodding at his arm. "Did you get what you wanted last night?"

"Yes. Thank you, again."

"He's next door. You have a few minutes before the ceremony."

James leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Congratulations, Miranda. I hope you'll always be as happy as you are today."

"Oh, James."

He left her dabbing at her eyes, and went to face his fate.

* * *

The gentle knock on the door barely registered.

"Come in!" Thomas called out on autopilot, entirely focused on tying his cravat. But his fingers froze when James appeared in the reflection.

The seconds seemed to stretch on, each one trickling by like molasses, cloying and too sweet. He'd caught glimpses of James through the parlor windows over the past week, the sight of him echoing through the hollow spaces of his heart, a comfort he needed but couldn't stomach. It had been a constant battle with himself not to give in and run to him, to feel those arms around him again. And now he was here.

When time sped back up again, Thomas took a deep breath and finished tying the bowtie. If his fingers trembled, James didn't need to know. The motion granted him some small amount of control. He hated that it was something he'd learned from his father, that Alfred still lived somewhere inside of him, despite years of attempting to purge his poison from his life. But it had served him well in the past - when in doubt, when unsure, carry on as you were until you feel settled once again.

James was fidgeting, touching his thumb to every finger, rubbing the pads of them together. Thomas fought past an urge to take his hands and kiss James's palms until he'd settled. He turned.

"Thomas." James's voice shook.

"Hello, James."

James cleared his throat. "Congratulations."

"Thank you."

James was twisting his hands together now, and Thomas took pity on him.

"What do you want, James?"

The fidgeting stopped, as though Thomas had called attention to it. James glanced at his hands and then settled them at his sides, standing at attention, like a lieutenant at sea. He squared his shoulders and Thomas loved him in that moment of resolution, before he even knew what James was going to say.

"I came to apologize. I was so, very wrong. But I wasn't sure whether the words would be enough to make you understand." James recited the apology like he'd learned the lines by heart. He looked so nervous, he probably had. Thomas's chest constricted.

"Words can only convey so much, and more often it's our actions that prove our intentions. And my actions last week…" James spread his hands. "I have a lot to prove to you, Thomas. I owe you so much more than words. Er, so I…" He swallowed roughly and slid his jacket from his shoulders.

Confused, Thomas frowned as James undid his buttons, the bright white of his cotton vest revealed when he shrugged one shoulder out of the dress shirt.

But then James turned sideways and Thomas stopped breathing.

Know no shame.

It was tattooed on James's upper arm, in the same scrawling script of his own tattoo - his scrawling script. The skin around it was still red, the lines raised. The clear protective film was still covering it. The tattoo couldn't be more than a day old.

"It's - you-" Thomas reached for James's arm, desperate to inspect the words inscribed there more closely, but he wasn't sure he could cross that gap. James was still so far away.

He didn't have to. James did it for him, stepping forward, and Thomas touched his skin for the first time in a week. He shook, trailing his fingertips along the soft hairs on James's forearm. How had he come to take this for granted? That he would always have James close enough to touch? His skin was warm and soft and so beautifully freckled. And now, Thomas's handwriting was a part of him too.

"I tried to get it done in the exact same place you had yours, but I'm not sure if I managed to-"

"It's perfect." He rubbed his thumb around the edge of the film. "Where did you get the template?"

"I asked Miranda." James shifted his weight in discomfort. "She stole your phone last night while you were in the loo. She emailed me the file."

Miranda. Christ, he loved her.

James pulled away, leaving Thomas bereft once more. "Give me a second. I need to - there's more I need to say."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Thomas. I should never have doubted you, or questioned what you went through. And meddling where I absolutely did not belong…" James released a shaky breath. "I thought you'd never speak to me again," he whispered.

Thomas wanted to tell him that wasn't true, but he'd been so lost for the last week. If James hadn't sought him out today, he wasn't sure he'd ever have been able to muster up the courage or humility to approach him again.

"It was unbearable. The idea of being without you - Thomas. It's unbearable." His eyes were wet now, rimmed with red.

"James…"

"I swear I'll stand with you from now on, come hell or high water. I'll trust what you tell me, and I'll support you if you'll just allow me a second chance. Some people don't deserve forgiveness, and that's alright, but God, please say you'll forgive me. Please, I-"

Thomas broke at last. "James, oh, James. Yes. Yes, of course." He pulled James into his arms, and James clutched at his sides, shaking, his fist crumpling Thomas's dress shirt.

"As long as you'll have me, you'll never have to feel shame. Please, Thomas. I love you."

Thomas's heart stopped for a moment before waves of emotion crashed over him. Disbelief, euphoria, and his own overwhelming devotion. "Fuck, James. I love you. I love you." He tilted James's head up and kissed him, desperate for James's lips against his own. Desperate to drown himself in James's love.

Something in the sound that escaped James - somewhere halfway between a sob and a groan - set Thomas on fire. He pulled James in even closer, clutching tightly when James opened to him at last, his tongue sliding hot and wet against his own, teeth biting at Thomas's lips. James's hands were in his hair, tugging, pulling him down, and Thomas dug his fingers into James's hips, pressing their bodies as closely as he could.

He needed more. He needed to show James how much he loved him, how he'd missed him. He wanted to make sure James felt every ounce of his devotion. Fucking Christ, if Thomas could climb inside of him he would, just to be closer to that beating heart - to live in it.

James's shirt hung off of the one shoulder, his bare arm red and tender. It was the sexiest thing Thomas had ever seen in his life. He was hard and desperate, wanting more than anything to drop to his knees and take James into his mouth, taste him, hear him cry out, swallow every last drop that James had to-

"Thomas?"

"Fuck!"

They pulled apart as if burned, both panting, trying to catch their breaths.

"Thomas, is James in there? They need him in the hall with Teddy. They want to start."

James was a mess. His shirt was almost completely off now, his hair was sticking up everywhere. When had Thomas unbuckled his belt? Thomas took in his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, and wanted nothing more than to say, "fuck it," and take James home.

But Miranda needed him. She needed them both.

He cleared his throat. "Yes," he called out to the usher. "He'll be right there!"

James bit his lip and Thomas grinned slowly.

"Go on, then. Plenty of time for this later."

"Promise?"

In answer, Thomas tugged the loose end of James's belt, pulling him forward. "James. I'm going to fuck you tonight until you're begging to come."

"Christ." James swallowed and fumbled with his shirt, trying to put himself in order. "Okay," he said, checking himself once over in the mirror. "Let's go."

Just before he reached the door, however, Thomas stopped him, pulling him in for one last kiss. It was slow, and deep, Thomas drawing fortitude and comfort from James, and offering his own quiet reverence in return.

"I love you," he said, when he pulled away.

James's smile was blinding. "I love you, too." He disappeared down the hallway.

* * *

Teddy's face when Miranda walked down the aisle was love personified. His grip on James's arm tightened, and James caught his sigh of adoration.

"Look at her," he said in awe. "Isn't she beautiful?"

She was undoubtedly stunning, but James only had eyes for Thomas, walking with her arm in arm. At the altar, Thomas placed a light kiss on her lips and hugged her tightly, then passed her off to Teddy.

They caught each other's eyes over the bride and groom, and what passed between them as the minister spoke of promises, of devotion, of a life together, was its own type of holy vow. In a moment of clear certainty, James knew he'd be standing with Thomas at an altar one day, binding his own life to his forever.

"Miranda," Teddy began, and needed to clear his throat. "Miranda. I am not sure what higher power led me to you, but I will never stop being grateful for it. If anyone in this world was ever deserving of happiness, it is you. I cannot think of a better way to spend my life than at your side, bringing you whatever joy is within my power to give you. You have my loyalty, my fidelity, my honesty, my heart, and my soul."

Thomas sniffed as Teddy slid the ring onto Miranda's finger, glancing at the ceiling and blinking repeatedly. James grinned.

Miranda's eyes were wet, and she swiped at the tears gently, laughing. "Teddy. I have been without true joy in my life for far too long. I thought the door to happiness shut forever. But you opened it," Miranda sounded amazed. "You opened that door, and you brought with you joy, and music, and peace. You brought me a life. I am happy, Teddy. You have already made me the happiest woman, and I will never stop loving you for it. You have my trust, my faith, my heart, and my soul."

Teddy had his back to James, but if the way he was looking at Miranda was anything like the way Thomas was looking at him, then she was lucky indeed.

"With the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

Teddy, bless him, actually dipped her.

* * *

It was a beautiful night, one made even more beautiful by the serene glow of the man and woman of the hour.

Thomas hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

He danced with Miranda, he danced with James. He even pulled Teddy into a quickstep at one point, the two of them laughing uncontrollably. Miranda had found a fantastic live band, because of course she had, and the food, the ambiance - everything came together for a perfect evening.

"So you two worked everything out?" Miranda asked him, swaying in his arms to a soft jazzy number.

Thomas hummed, spinning them.

"Good. He's good for you, darling. And you can't imagine a future without him."

Thomas pulled away slightly in surprise. He pulled her in closer and laughed. "Yes. I won't ask how you know, but yes."

"How I know? Thomas, it's clear to anyone looking at the two of you. My God, what ridiculous creatures you men are."

Thomas glanced over to where James was dancing with Teddy's mother. She looked a bit starstruck and Thomas couldn't blame her. She was all of five feet, maybe a tad more, and James towered over her in all his ginger glory, smiling at her without any pretense or guile.

Teddy sped by them, twirling a little girl, one of his nieces perhaps? as she giggled in delight.

"Miranda, I've been meaning to ask… Both James and I wondered - is Teddy English?"

Miranda frowned. "What kind of ridiculous question is that?" She asked pityingly. "I should think it was obvious. Don't you?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course."

Well, that was that then. He and James would have to resign themselves to the total mystery that was Teddy Barlow.

* * *

The wedding party sent them off in style, Miranda and Teddy running from tossed rice and cheers with whole-hearted laughter.

And then it was over. As James and Thomas looked at each other in the silence that followed, the joyous energy of the evening was replaced by something else entirely. A heady frisson of excitement shot through James as Thomas's eyes darkened.

"We should-"

"Yeah."

"I'll get my things?"

"Meet outside in ten? I'll get a cab."

The cab ride back to Sullivan Street was quiet. James itched to touch Thomas, to run his hands through his hair, to kiss him, to make him moan. They sat on opposite ends of the back seat, but Thomas's heat somehow surrounded him, nonetheless. If James reached across the short expanse stretching between them to touch, he'd never be able to stop.

Blue eyes burned into him, and the promise of everything Thomas wanted to do to James was enough to make him half hard.

It had been a week and James was fucking desperate for him.

Thomas paid the cabbie as James rushed to the door of the tattoo parlor, unlocking it, and then Thomas was shoving them both through the entrance, flipping James and pushing him back against the wall. James groaned in relief at the tongue sliding against his own, and pressed his hips and erection against Thomas's, his fingers digging into Thomas's ass.

Somehow, they stumbled their way through the shop with minimal crashing, to the back door and the building stairwell. James nearly tripped on their way up several times, biting Thomas's lip at one point. It only occurred to him once Thomas was attempting to unlock the door to his flat with James biting his way down his neck, that it might have been easier coming in through the building entrance and taking the lift.

But then they were inside, and Thomas had his hand down James's trousers, and he stopped thinking about anything much at all.

Their clothes left a trail behind them on the way to the bedroom, and the heady relief of skin against skin after a week of missing and longing was overwhelming. James gasped when Thomas's nail cut across his nipple, and outright whimpered when he followed it up with teeth and tongue. His legs gave out and he dropped to the bed behind him.

It was as urgent as their first time together, only now Thomas knew every way to make James cry out for him, make him squirm and beg and plead. Thomas took him into his mouth, swallowing around him when James hit the back of his throat, and James threw his head back, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Heat and warmth, and obscene sucking noises drew every one of James's senses to a pinpoint where only he and Thomas existed in the whole world.

Thomas pulled off before James finished, biting at the inside of his thigh, and James pulled him up and flipped them, kissing Thomas deeply. He loved the taste of himself on Thomas's tongue, loved the contented sigh he made when James swept his tongue along his bottom lip. He loved Thomas.

Despite the promises of how hard Thomas had planned to fuck him tonight, James suddenly needed something entirely different.

"Please, Thomas…" He turned onto his side, pulling Thomas with him, and trailed a hand down to his hip. "Please, can I- I need- " He reached around to slide a finger in between Thomas's cheeks, and Thomas arched into him, groaning.

"Yes," he panted. "Yes, James, yes."

Shaking, James reached for the lube in the drawer, but when he pulled out a condom, Thomas grabbed his wrist. "Leave it," he said. "We're both clean. And I want to feel you."

James swallowed, but nodded, leaning in to kiss Thomas again.

When he pressed a finger inside of him, Thomas tensed, but James murmured soothing words, trailing his other hand along Thomas's abdomen, his sides, his chest, until Thomas relaxed.

He worked him slowly, entranced by the sounds Thomas made, by the sight of one finger, then two disappearing inside of his lover, by Thomas's hooded eyes, watching him.

He was practically shaking when he slicked himself up and lifted Thomas's knees, settling them in the crooks of his elbows.

"Okay?"

Thomas nodded, his cheeks flushed brilliantly, and his pupils blown. "Yes. God, yes."

James turned his head and kissed Thomas's knee. "I love you."

Thomas let out a shaky breath. "I love you too."

He entered Thomas slowly, watching his face for any signs of discomfort or unease. Thomas's chest rose and fell with each gasp, his eyes falling shut as he bit his lip. Both of them groaned when James bottomed out. Thomas opened his eyes, his pupils blown so wide only a sliver of James's favorite bright blue remained.

"Alright? How do you feel?"

"Full. Please, James. I need-" Thomas shifted his hips, and James groaned, his chin dropping to his chest.

"Okay," he murmured, sweat beading at his temples. "Okay." He pulled out slowly and pushed back in. Thomas scrabbled at the bed, gripping the sheets in his fists.

"More."

He set a slow rhythm, keeping a tight grip on his own composure, watching with fascination as Thomas fell apart beneath him. When Thomas asked for more, James obliged with a single hard thrust and then went back to steady, measured movements. As badly as he wanted to let go and to fuck Thomas until they fell into the abyss together, he wanted to make Thomas lose himself even more, make him beg.

"James, please, I can't - I -" Thomas tossed his head from side to side, crying out when James shifted the angle and hit his prostate on his next thrust. His cock was hard and weeping, precome pooling on Thomas's belly. James wanted to taste him, to lick him clean and swallow him down.

No longer able to control himself, James sped up, needing to find his release and aching to bring that same release to Thomas.

"Yes, James. Just like that, you're-" Thomas broke off with a gasp, James hitting his prostate again. "Oh, you're so good. So good for me, James." James groaned, shivering with the praise. "When I fuck you, you take it so beautifully, and when you fuck me - Christ, James. I wish you could see yourself, how beautiful you look pleasing me, moving over me. I could come just watching you get off inside of me."

Fuck he was going to come.

"That's right, James. You can do it, come for me, love. I want to feel you come inside of me, see you lose control. You're so good."

With a cry, James thrust one last time and came, his muscles tensing and contracting, his whole body shuddering with the strength of his release. He let go of Thomas's legs and dropped his hands to either side of him. His arms shook, the strain of holding himself up almost too much.

"Beautiful," Thomas whispered, cupping James's face and running a thumb across his cheekbone. "You're so beautiful."

His eyes stung. He screwed them shut and swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. After everything Thomas had been through, there was still so much love in him. James was determined to spend his life making sure he felt that love returned to him a hundred-fold.

He pulled out with a hiss, and Thomas's cock twitched beautifully, still standing proud and desperate for attention. James dipped his head, licking across Thomas's stomach like he'd wanted, lapping up Thomas's essence, dipping his tongue into his navel before moving further down. Thomas's fingers tangled into his hair, guiding him, until James had the wonderful weight of Thomas on his tongue. He took Thomas as far as he could, not an easy feat, circling the rest of his shaft with his hands.

Thomas arched off the bed, moaning. A surge of pride flared through James. He could give him this - he could make Thomas want him and need him this badly, and bring him this much pleasure. He swirled his tongue around Thomas's cock, breathing in the heady scent of his lover, swallowing a little bit more.

"James, love, your mouth, you-"

He didn't let up. He let Thomas's broken words and voice wash over him, revelled in every gasp and moan.

"So good, Fuck - James I - so, so good. Fuck, fuck - fuck!" With a shout, Thomas came down James's throat, and James took it, swallowing every last bit. He pulled off gently, Thomas making needy little sounds James found absolutely enchanting, and placed little kisses along Thomas's inner thigh. He moved up slowly, delighted when the noises continued and Thomas squirmed beneath his whiskery kisses. James finally settled, stretched out completely against him. Thomas leaned in, kissing him languidly and humming in contentment.

"I'm going to be so sore tomorrow."

"Sorry."

"No, I - I love it." Thomas turned, tangling their legs together. "I love you."

James bit his lip. "Thomas, I really am so-"

Thomas shook his head. "Don't. It's over." He rubbed a thumb gently across James's tattoo, making him hiss. Thomas gave him an apologetic look. "It's over and you're mine, and that's all that matters. Don't apologize to me anymore. Don't be sorry. Just love me."

"Aye."

Thomas grinned, burying his face in James's neck. "Aye, talk Scottish to me."

James snorted, but rolled them so Thomas was beneath him once more. "Yer wish is mah commain."

Thomas's laughter quickly turned to moans.

* * *

"Who the bloody fuck is calling you at this hour?" Thomas groaned, burying his head underneath his pillow.

James blinked an eye open, squinting. The ensuite was still the only source of light, it was so early. He groped for his phone, knocking it over with a swear and almost falling out of bed in his effort to pick it up.

"James…" Thomas nearly growled. If James hadn't been so tired himself, it would have been endearing.

"Ow!" He banged his elbow on the side table, but located his phone at last. Glaring at the name on the screen, he answered, voice groggy. "Hal, so help me God, I am going to bloody murder you."

"Fucking white roses, James. That's it, just roses. Unbelievable. I mean, go with roses if you want to do what everyone else does, but I would have expected more, to be quite honest."

"What in bloody Christ are you on about, you fucking wanker?"

Thomas snorted.

"I'm watching the preliminary coverage on the wedding. I'm not impressed. Aren't you watching this?"

James tried to wrap his head around what Gates was telling him, but his sleep-deprived brain was having trouble connecting the dots.

Thomas poked his head out from under his pillow, his hair sticking up, and his eyes and nose scrunched up with sleep. "Does this happen often? Should I buy earplugs?"

James sighed, running a hand down Thomas's back, his bare skin warm with sleep.

"James, aren't you watching the wedding coverage?" Gates asked.

"For fuck's sake, what wedding?"

"What do you mean, 'what wedding?' The bloody royal wedding, you tosser! What have we been talking about for the past month?"

James grit his teeth. It was 4:45 in the morning, and he was seconds away from demoting Gates and placing Billy in charge of everything, just to spite him. "Hal. I'm going to say this very slowly, so that maybe you'll understand. I live in a different country now, and there's this thing called time zones, see, and you keep fucking calling me when the sun hasn't even come up yet!"

There was a pause as Gates calculated the time. "Oh, shit."

James rolled his eyes.

"You know, in my defense, you should be following this anyway. We're on the vendor's list now, James. We need to get a leg up on the competition if we want to find our edge."

"Had a leg up," Thomas muttered to himself. "Two of them even. Now I just want to sleep."

James choked back a laugh.

"You've got to watch the wedding, James."

Thomas groaned and finally sat up. He plucked the phone from James's hand before he could argue.

"Hello. Mr. Gates, was it? We were at a wedding last night. A much better one. The flowers were lovely. And then we had loads of sex, so we'd really like to go back to sleep now, if you wouldn't mind." He handed the phone back to James and laid back down, snuggling into his side.

James sat in dumbfounded silence for a moment, before he finally lifted the phone to his ear again.

"Er…"

The silence on the other end was deafening. At last, Gates coughed. "Er. So I'm guessing you worked things out with your…?

"Yeah." James cleared his throat.

"Right, well. That's - that's good."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm gonna-"

"Yep."

Gates hung up.

"You shit," he muttered lovingly at Thomas.

Thomas was already half asleep again. He slung an arm across James's lap. "Maybe that'll teach him not to call you at arse o'clock in the morning."

James grinned and settled back down in Thomas's arms.

* * *

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

It was quiet in Sullivan Street Tattoos, aside from the soft, lilting jazz playing on the sound system. Thomas had closed up shop over an hour ago and it was already dark outside.

James turned on the client bed, looking over his shoulder. Thomas's brow was creased in a frown, latex-gloved hand holding the needle at the ready.

"That's the third time you've asked. Thomas, are you sure you're ready?"

Thomas scowled. James stared at him pointedly until he finally sighed, his shoulders dropping.

"I'm nervous. I haven't been nervous about tattooing someone in years."

James turned over fully onto his back, reaching up to cup Thomas's face. "Don't be. It's going to be brilliant." Thomas covered James's hand with his own, and James continued. "We've both had plenty of time to think about it. I love you, and I want this. More importantly, I want you to do it. And besides," he grinned at Thomas and gave a him a cheeky wink, "it's not like it's my first time.

Thomas's eyes flicked to James's bare arm, and he traced the letters there again, a habit he'd developed that James quite liked.

He took a deep breath, bringing the medical lamp in close and adjusting the light. "Right then."

James settled back into position, breathing deeply as Thomas flicked a switch and the sound of buzzing filled the room, joining the gentle rhythm of the music. Thomas's warm hand trailed down his side. A pause and then-

"Are you su-"

"Fucking hell, Thomas!"

"Okay! Alright! Fuck. On with it then."

* * *

No one expects love.

It's always a surprise, the way it engulfs and surrounds, the way it takes over. It settles in the heart, burrows deep down, like ink in skin.

It's bright splashes of color, daffodils, and primroses, and bluebells.

It's guessing games and poems, Anne Brontë, and John Donne, and Pablo Neruda.

It's James, my truest love freshly tattooed on a collarbone, and Know no shame twice over, and tempests in teacups.

It's barefoot breakfasts with the summer sun trickling in through a window in SoHo.

It's quiet nights, and soft moans, and promises.

No one expects love.

But sometimes, it's right across Sullivan Street, at Walrus Cottage Blooms.


End file.
